Bachelor Girl Hall of Fame

10

Feel Like Company?

February 3, 2013

First, the big news. If you’re busy and don’t have time to read one of my rambling, stream-of-consciousness, navel-gazing blog entries (or just don’t feel like it, for which I would not blame you a bit, by the way), then here’s the least you need to know: THE GUY AND I GOT CAST IN COMPANY AT SHREVEPORT LITTLE THEATRE!!!!!!!!

(It opens June 27, and you need not worry about remembering to buy tickets, because TRUST ME, I will remind you at least once a week for the next 20 weeks.)

(You’re welcome.)

I would say YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!, but that doesn’t even begin to describe the excitement and utter joy that is practically leaking out of the Powell house this evening. A couple years ago or so, a taped performance of the 2006 Broadway revival version came out on Netflix (pretty sure it’s still on Netflix, actually), and The Guy and I watched it. The only way I can describe our reaction to it is to say the divining rod went down HARD – it’s rare that we BOTH fall like that for a musical or play, as we have different tastes sometimes where theatre is concerned. But man alive, we love Company, and because of it, we fell in love with Stephen Sondheim.

When theatre nerds fall in love with a show, the first thing they want to do, naturally, is put on their own production of it. And we had the idea to approach Bobby Darrow, the artistic director of Shreveport Little Theatre, about putting it on there in his honor, as a way to thank him for his uncountable contributions to community theatre in Shreveport. But there were a number of problems with this little endeavor, motivated by love though it would be. First, we’d have to get Bobby to agree. Second, we’d probably have to raise the money for it ourselves, and for that we’re talking about a sum of money somewhere north of $10,000 (likely a great deal more). Third, we’d more than likely have to find somebody besides Bobby to direct it, and then we’d have to cast it. In other words, it would be practically impossible for two people with a baby and two and a half full-time jobs between them.

It just wasn’t the time.

Fast forward to December 18. I realized I was, as they say, late, took a pregnancy test, and learned, much to our delight, that Baby Powell was on his or her way. Both of us were absolutely ecstatic.

Exactly 10 days later, we heard that Bobby was planning to mount a production of Company at Shreveport Little Theatre in June (i.e., he beat us to the punch). I admit I felt a little wistful. I knew The Guy would probably get cast, but alas, there are no hugely pregnant characters in Company. But in truth, I had no regrets. I would be busily preparing for Baby Powell, and The Guy agreed right away that I could “finish” the nursery (read: do some expensive stuff like have drapes made and get the glider recovered in this GORGEOUS white faux crocodile vinyl I found at Milling Around – I know, I know, it sounds hideously tacky, but trust me, this thing would’ve been drop-dead chic. Also vomit-proof!). And he would probably be cast, so while I wouldn’t be in it myself, at least I would be close to it, and that would be a lot of fun. I thought to myself, I could probably get a babysitter a few nights and go up to the theatre and watch them rehearse. Plus my mom has been wanting to volunteer helping to sew costumes, and that might be fun, too.

It just wasn’t my time.

On January 18, precisely one month after I found out I was pregnant with Baby Powell, The Guy and I went to the OB and had an ultrasound where we learned there was no heartbeat. In a daze, we scheduled a D&C for the following Monday.

It just wasn’t Baby Powell’s time.

I spent the rest of the day alternating between fits of sobbing and a grief-stricken daze. That night, seemingly out of nowhere, a thought occurred to me. “Call Bobby,” I said. “Call him right now and tell him I want to audition for Company.” Understandably, The Guy could not believe I was serious. Somehow, I convinced him I was. Bobby, having no clue that this was anything other than a perfectly ordinary weekend for the Powell family, asked us to come to the theatre Sunday at 4. He said I should prepare a song from the show.

OK, y’all, let’s just stop right here and analyze this for a minute.

1. I am, quite literally, in the midst of a miscarriage.
2. I have not sung for anyone except for babies, dogs and the crowd at a lesbian karaoke bar in New Orleans (long story) since the ninth grade.
3. While I have spent plenty of time singing along with Raul Esparza on iTunes, I do not actually KNOW any of the songs from Company.

I asked Dr. Brandi, “This is the very definition of avoidance and denial, right?”

Her answer?

“Who cares?”

I am here to tell you that the only thing in the entire known universe that could have possibly distracted me from what was to come on Monday would be preparing to sing in front of sober people for the first time since I was 14 years old.

So I threw myself into learning “The Little Things You Do Together.”

When I say that out loud – “I’m really not a very good singer, and I haven’t sung since I was a freshman in high school, but I marched my ass into Shreveport Little Theatre, climbed on the stage and sang like somebody was paying me a hundred bucks to do it,” I think to myself,

SELF, WHAT THE F–K IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?! SERIOUSLY, WHO DOES S–T LIKE THAT?!

And, as usual, I have no rational explanation for my actions.

It went…to tell the truth, I had no idea how it went, but I chose to trust The Guy when he said (with a surprised look on his face, I might add) that it went really well.

On the car ride home, I broke down, and was inconsolable until the next day when they wheeled me into the operating room, put a suffocating plastic mask on my face and told me to breathe deeply.

Two days later, while I was still very much in a grief-and-painkiller-induced fog, Bobby called and said he wanted me to read for him. I thought, OK, good, my singing didn’t automatically knock me out of the running. Only problem was, we had to wait for the scripts to come in. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

FINALLY, finally, Bobby called The Guy on Friday, and they arranged for him to come to our house at 7:30 that evening. I rushed around, trying to make myself presentable and entertain Harper at the same time. NOT an easy feat.

We read, then we chatted for a bit, and Bobby left. And I was DISTRAUGHT. I felt the reading had gone horribly, possibly so badly that Bobby would be disinclined to cast either of us. In other words, I effed up so bad that I not only failed myself, I took Perk down with me. The enormity, not to mention the stupidity, of what I had attempted to do came crashing down on me. I am a 35-year-old mom who hasn’t been on a stage except to take pictures in over 15 years. What business do I have SINGING and ACTING in a MUSICAL when I have just lost one baby and have another one at home who spends the vast majority of her day trying every way she can possibly think of to fatally injure herself? With everything that’s happened to this family in the previous two months, the last thing on Earth we need is more disappointment, and here I have gone INVITING disappointment into our lives. For God’s sake, I’ve practically rolled out the red carpet for it! How stupid, irresponsible and positively DELUSIONAL can an adult human possibly be?

I took one of the sleeping pills that my OB mercifully prescribed for me and went to bed.

Saturday, I waited uneasily with a big, hard knot in the pit of my stomach. Bobby mentioned that two more people were auditioning on Saturday, so I told myself that we wouldn’t hear anything until Sunday anyway. About 4:00, the phone rang. It was Bobby.

He did not sound especially happy. I braced myself.

And then he said those eight beautiful words: “I would like to offer you the role…”

Everything after that is a blur or, more accurately, a gigantic ball of shiny, blinding light.

I’ve already been going to the gym and exercising at home, getting myself into fightin’ form.

And my first voice lesson is on Monday.

It hasn’t sunk in – and may not for a good many more weeks – that I am going to be performing on stage for the first time since college. That is…just…insane.

I know at least a few of you will sneer at the idea that God engineered this, but I believe He did. There is only one being in the infinite multiverse who could make Kelly Powell brave and/or stupid enough to sing in front of people who can pass a field sobriety test and speak English.

(I also think Thorpe, who was crazy for Broadway musicals, might’ve been kicking, or rather, knowing Thorpe, pinching me, in the ass a bit.)

You know that saying about how when God closes a door, He opens a window? I think that’s what happened here. No show – no TEN shows – could ever “make up for” Baby Powell. But God gave me something to do instead. Maybe it’s not “as good,” but it’s still very, very good indeed. I mean, how many spouses get to do things like this TOGETHER? I get to spend time with my husband and my best friend doing something we both love AND learn from him at the same time.

Both Baby Powell and Company are the blessings of a lifetime. They’re just different blessings for different points in a lifetime.

Now is not the time for one, but it’s the perfect time for another.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I’m playing Jenny, and The Guy is David. You can check out those two crazy kids right here (their scene starts at 2:08).

I’m pretty excited to slip into Jenny’s twin set and pearls and see how it feels to be a square.

Your triple double single-threat
Kel

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7

Of Bum Knees and Christmas Tree Skirts

December 12, 2012

So I guess I need to let y’all know what’s been going on. I was in denial for about 24 hours. And actually, while we’re on the subject, you should know that I love denial. You can convince yourself of anything, you know, including that everything is juuuuust peachy.

But reality has sunk in, and I have come to terms, more or less, with the fact that life in the Powell household is going to be very different for a while.

The last couple of weeks have been…yeah.

In order:

1. My child had an ear infection so bad that she had to go to the doctor twice and the E.R. once. This went on for 10 straight days. Those of you who are parents are cringing right now, imagining what her mood was like.

As The Guy’s boss said, “It’s been 15 years since I had a baby with an ear infection. Can’t say I miss ‘em.”

2. On Oct. 15, I ordered a red and white chevron-striped Christmas tree skirt with “Powell” embroidered on it in green from one of those deal-of-the-day sites called Very Jane. After much back-and-forth, the seller assures me that it shipped last Tuesday. It never arrives.

After several more terse emails, she finally tells me that, in essence, she fibbed when she told me the skirt shipped Tuesday, because it turns out that she didn’t even have it yet. Either that, or she was planning to make, monogram and ship my Christmas tree skirt in one day.

(My mom is a professional seamstress who has been sewing for most of her life. Even she is unable to make, monogram and ship a Christmas tree skirt in one day.)

Rather than in any way making this situation right, she simply tells Very Jane to refund my money. So now it’s 13 days until Christmas and I have no tree skirt despite ordering one two months ago, and as you will soon see, I can’t exactly go shopping for one, either. Oh, and Very Jane DID give me a refund, but they steadfastly refuse to acknowledge my horrible customer-service experience.

Merry Christmas to me.

3. I went to the doctor, where I learned I will have to have surgery on my left knee. This is inconvenient but not necessarily unexpected. As Dr. Brandi put it, “Knees usually finally say ‘enough’ after so many years of dance.”

What was most disappointing is that I had finally made the decision to start taking ballet again. Feel free to laugh all you want, but I don’t think I can express how much I was looking forward to it. I mean, I know good and well that I could practice seven days a week for the rest of my life and never again reach the level I was at when I quit, but 1) it’s some of the best exercise there is and 2) it’s an activity that I truly love like no other.

But that’s life, and that’s dance. There are lots of disappointments.

4. I go on a photo shoot, where I dislocate the OTHER knee.

Excuse my profanity here, but no, I am not, in fact, shitting you.

I didn’t fall, and I wasn’t hanging sideways out of a tree or doing anything equally risky. I simply knelt to take a shot (just like any of you who are clients have seen me do a hundred times), and when I got up, bingo. The pain took my breath away, and I couldn’t talk for a little bit.

Here’s the craziest part: After it happened, I just kept on shooting. Not because I’m some kind of badass or anything, but because a) I was completely and utterly humiliated and 2) I am apparently a pathological people-pleaser. The way I saw it (at the moment, at least) was that my clients had driven all the way to Benton from Mooringsport and I was not about to send them home with four pictures simply because my knee couldn’t behave itself.

Thank God it popped back in on its own, or otherwise this story probably would’ve ended with them calling an ambulance for me.

On the bright side, their pictures turned out really pretty.

5. Because of Knee Dislocation IV (yes, four; that’s exactly four more dislocations than anyone should experience in a single lifetime), I had to cancel a three-hour birthday party shoot for this coming weekend. Thank God, my friend Henrietta agreed at the last minute to take the job in my place. Also thank God that the kid’s parents are doctors, so they understand the situation and were super nice about it and grateful that I found a replacement for them.

Who do these things happen to, I ask you? Who?

6. Then, after rearranging my and The Guy’s entire lives because I can’t pick up the baby off of the floor and/or carry her anywhere, I go to the eye doctor to have my pre-op LASIK exam and learn that I am at risk for a complication and have to have an additional scan before I can have the surgery.

Good: This scanner represents the very latest in ophthalmologic technology!

Bad: However, it has not yet arrived in Shreveport.

Worse: Because it was ordered from overseas and is currently stuck in customs.

Because of the Christmas holidays, they’re not doing surgery as often, so my procedure has been postponed until January 25. This after wearing my glasses and having a perpetual headache for two weeks. I am not ashamed to tell you that I started crying right there in the doctor’s office.

So instead of getting 20/20 vision for Christmas, it looks like I’m actually getting surgical scars and at least two knee braces.

Santa, I’m gonna be honest right now: I’m considering baking Ex-Lax into your cookies, you fat m0#$3^f@(43^.

Because I am trying to maintain some semblance of positivity, we will not discuss the likelihood that, for my and The Guy’s Great-Gatsby-themed New Year’s party, an event I have looked forward to literally for YEARS, I will be sitting in a chair almost the entire time.

—-

While I would like to tell you that I have maintained an unfailingly sunny attitude throughout all this strife, that would be a bald-faced lie. There has been much wailing, gnashing of teeth, rending of garments and florid, Texas-style profanity. It is exceedingly difficult – nay, impossible! – for me to sit and watch a movie without doing anything else, so you can imagine how I feel about being confined to the sofa for two and a half days. And not being able to take care of the house, laundry and baby the way *I* like to do it is about to cause my OCD to eat me alive from the inside out.

The Guy cautions me all the time to stay out of the business of trying to decipher God’s plans, but in this situation, if I had to guess, I’d say that this is his sure-fire way of getting me to slow down. I never take off work even when I intend to. Technically, I’m taking December off, but I turned in an article yesterday and had scheduled no less than four photo shoots. I haven’t slowed down in a long, long time, and I know in my heart that I need to. I’ve been working as hard as I can this year to be the best mom I can possibly be and to grow the photography business, and I’m getting really tired – like, tired way deep down where I can’t even see. There’s just so much I want to do and make and plan and help with! But it’s time to take a break. Obviously, my knees think so, too.

So if you need me over the next few weeks, for once, you’ll know exactly where to find me – on the sofa. While that may sound heavenly to some, I know it’s going to take some adjustment for me to be OK with it, but I also know those are adjustments I need to make. And I’d love some company, so if you feel like visiting, stop by and sit a while. (Bonus points if you bring Thai food like my sweet friend Angela did today.)

Apparently, I’m not going anywhere for a while!

Your laid-up
Kel

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6

Party Girl

November 26, 2012

Predictably, a sense of melancholy fell over me after Harper’s first birthday party. After weeks of planning, strategizing, shopping, choosing, ordering, crafting, sewing and a whole lot of hot gluing (also: second-degree burning), I finally had a moment to sit and think about my girl being one whole entire year old, and how this “baby” business is flying by way, way too fast for my liking.

Rat's first birthday party is five days away, and Mom and I are sitting smack in the middle of crafting and sewing hell.

I think I shall take her out in the rain and shrink her so she’ll stay a baby forever.

That’s how it works, right?

DSC_0406

At any rate, she had a blast at her party, which is the best outcome I could’ve possibly hoped for. And, after some initial skepticism, it turns out Little Miss is quite the fan of cupcakes, just like her mama.

DSC_1571

Also, she is now under the erroneous impression that all cupcakes are for her. I.e., she threw a fit at Joy’s birthday brunch when I wouldn’t hand over my entire cupcake.

Before Harper was born, I started planning a cowgirl theme (yes, I am EXACTLY the kind of person who begins planning her daughter’s first birthday party before she’s even born), but in February, I decided Raggedy Ann was the only way to go. See, Raggedy Ann dolls are one of Delta Gamma’s symbols. (Well, officially, DG refers to it as a “Hannah Doll,” but in reality, most chapters use Raggedy Anns.) It was my small way of honoring Thorpe, whom Harper never got to meet.

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I hope Thorpe would’ve been tickled pink.

The lovely and incredibly talented Henrietta Wildsmith photographed the event for us. She also took Harper’s newborn photos and photographed her baptism, and as usual, she did an incredible job. Thanks to her hard work, I was able to be completely present for Harper’s party and focus on being a proud mom, not a photographer, and that meant the world to me.

Plus, we got our Christmas card photo out of it, so SCORE.

We also need to talk about how AMAZING The Guy was during my days (and nights) of June-Cleaver-on-speed-esque over-planning and neurosis leading up to the party. He never ONCE complained, and he jumped in and cheerfully did every single thing that needed to be done, including, but not limited to, going to three different stores to find polka-dotted balloons and paper straws and making an 11 p.m. run to Walmart to get Tabasco for the cucumber tea sandwiches. Because if THAT’S not a bona fide emergency, you’re going to have to tell me what is because I just don’t know.

In sum: A real man will hold you while you freak the eff out about be-glittered chipboard letters.

Want to see some more pics from Harperpalooza? They’re right here. That’s not all of them – Henrietta literally shot hundreds (a photographer after my own heart!) – but those are the ones that tell the story of a fun, exciting day that we two out of three of us will remember forever.

Your party-hoppin’
Kel

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4

Birthday Girl

November 23, 2012

Today, my newborn baby Rat is one year old. To be precise, she will be exactly one year old today at 5:56 p.m. That’s the first time I heard her sweet little mewing cry, a sound I wish I had recorded because it’s growing increasingly difficult to remember what this busy little girl looked and sounded like as a tiny, helpless baby.

Eighteen Hours.

She is already everything I always hoped I would be. And no, I don’t mean that in a weird, vicarious sort of way, like I just gave away my nefarious plan to mold her into a NYCB dancer in my basement lair, but she’s fiercer, braver and mightier than her mama ever thought about being.

Bonnet.

My daughter has changed my life for the better in more ways than I could list in a book, let alone on this blog. Being her father’s wife and her mother are the two greatest things I’ve ever done and ever will do, and if anyone thinks that’s hopelessly un-feminist or that I’ve lost my sense of self or, frankly, my mind, well, I can live with that. I am an integral part of a family. I am important and necessary in ways I never thought I would be. I finally have some sense of my own worth in the eyes of God, and that is what Harper Nell Powell gave to me on her birthday.

Trust the Gorton's Fisherman.

Lest you think I’ve completely gone down the rabbit-hole, I’ll tell you that I still adore my job(s), and I expect I always will. (I told Blake the other day that I don’t ever plan to “retire.” Sure, I’d like to work less and with less pressure, but giving up writing and photography would be the exact opposite of a happy retirement.) I love that I get the opportunity every day to be creative (and get paid for it!), and I love interacting with other adults in a professional setting. I even love the minutiae of running a business. It’s just that I love being a wife and mom more. And if there’s just one thing I want Harper to know always, it’s that I love her and I love being her mom. As I sit here, I know that my own mother loves me more than anything in the world, but I don’t think she was particularly fired up about being a mom in general. I, on the other hand, relish it. I love washing Harper’s little clothes, I love picking up her toys, I love thinking of what to feed her for meals, I love reading books about child development, I love socializing with other moms, I love taking her to church even though it’s exhausting, I love sewing and crafting things for her, I love changing her diaper in the back of my car and I love planning her birthday party (which has been the main reason for my recent unplanned blog hiatus).

Bath time.

That sounds like a lot of distractions from work, and it is, but being Harper’s mom has given me and my photography business a clarity and a focus that I never knew I could have and that, to be bluntly honest, very few who know me personally, including me, thought I was capable of. What used to take my all day can now be done in a couple of hours, i.e., during naptime. And although I try never to speak for The Guy, I think he would wholeheartedly agree that, although he has always loved his job, he has a whole new level of enthusiasm and confidence about it, in part because of his role as a father. If you were to distill it down to a single reason, I guess it’s that there are far fewer hours in a day that we can spend focused solely on our work, so we have to come to our jobs with a laser-like focus and take care of what’s important and eliminate what’s not, which has made both of us more efficient, more creative and more motivated.

This first year has not been easy. Joyful, yes. Easy? Not on your life. There has been an enormous learning curve for me and The Guy to overcome, and I’ve said more than once that, when we have another baby, I’ll feel kind of bad for Harper, because she’s the one who had to be the guinea pig. Every baby is different, so there’s no guarantee the next one will be smooth sailing, but having the first one is like riding a roller coaster in the dark; you never know what’s coming next. At least the next time around, we’ll have SOME idea what to expect. But Harper’s the one who made us parents, and because of that, she’ll always be special.

I’m so excited to see how she’ll grow and change and learn and develop in the next year. Yesterday, at Thanksgiving dinner with family, she more than held her own with her two- and four-year-old boy-cousins, so if I had to guess, I’d say we’re probably going to have more snails and puppydog tails than sugar and spice in our lives. And that’s just fine with me. It’d be great if she were a Girlus maximus like her mama, but if she’s not, then my five-year plan involves turning Harper Nell Powell into a spider-killing, attic-exploring, four-wheeler-riding machine. Which I am most definitely not. Although I did kill a spider yesterday to keep it from getting in her room. (If it had been anywhere else, I totally would have screamed, slammed the door, run away and waited for The Guy to get home. So yeah, I can unload a 9 mil into a splatter target with a pearly-white smile on my face, but smooshing a spider gives me the shivers for 45 minutes. Sue me.) So on top of everything else, Harper makes me brave.

She’s asleep at the moment, no doubt passed out face-down in her crib, drooling on her Winnie the Pooh doll that’s becoming more of a constant companion by the day, but when she wakes up, we’ll look at her Global Babies book that Linda and Elaine gave her (it’s the first thing besides Pooh that she wants every morning – I think she’s checking on them), cuddle her “Tiger Tail” (a little purple-and-yellow plush football with a striped tail attached), scatter blocks and maybe even rip up a fresh magazine (there’s very little Harper likes more than a brand-new, pristine magazine). She’ll babble to herself and say “Uh oh,” “BOOM!” “bo,” “I love you” (sort of), and, if I’m lucky, “good girl.” And that she is, my friends – a good girl. So I better go and fix another cup of coffee. It’s going to be a busy day.

Harper Thanksgiving 2012

Your candle-lighting
Kel

P.S. Want to see the many ways this nugget has grown and changed over her first year? Go here!

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6

Girls’ Night Out

October 23, 2012

I am so incredibly proud of Harper tonight.

As I said in my previous post, The Guy is out of town at a conference. He comes home tomorrow morning, but in the meantime, the girl-child and I are missing him something fierce. It breaks my heart into pieces all over the floor when she asks, “Da-Da? Da-Da? Da-Da?”

I’ve done OK in my quest to banish the leftovers, but tonight, I realized I was sick and tired of eating macaroni and cheese while the man of the house is eating sushi off of naked geisha girls in Las Vegas! OK, not really, but he’s in Vegas, for Pete’s sake, and naked geishas are the least of the Hunter-S.-Thompson-esque debauchery my overactive imagination has come up with.

As Harper and I ran errands this evening, I toyed with the idea of taking her out to dinner. Did I dare? Everyone I know would say I’m slap out of my mind. What if she melted down? What if the other restaurant patrons rose up against us in mutiny? What if she pooped?

If there’s one thing I know after a divorce, Hurricane Katrina and hosting the Tiverton Town Band by myself for an entire day (long story), it’s that I can make it through anything that doesn’t kill me right off the bat. Armed with a diaper bag full of snacks and toys and an iPhone loaded with Baby Einstein, we set off for Olive Garden.

(Look, don’t judge. I know the O.G. isn’t a giant step up from eating leftover pinto beans at home, but give me a break, OK?)

We walked in, and I could tell all the diners in our section of the restaurant were like, “Welp, nice quiet dinner’s over, folks,” but Rat gave them all her pudgy middle finger (metaphorically speaking, of course) by behaving perfectly. Well, except for flinging her menu and a bread stick on the floor, but dude, I’m willing to bet all the salad dressing in the world that the Olive Garden in Shreveport, LA, has seen worse. A LOT worse. TONIGHT.

For the most part, she sat quietly watching Baby Einstein: Neighborhood Animals and munching bits of bread stick, tugging on my wrist when she wanted a spoonful of chicken and gnocchi soup and occasionally saying hi to passersby.

In the parking lot, before I put her in her car seat, I kissed her chubby cheeks, lifted her high in the air and told her how proud I am to have such a good, sweet, smart, well-behaved girl. She may go all Jack Torrance in Jos. A Banks or the post office, but who doesn’t? Those places are boring, and neither of them serve bread sticks.

As my DG sister Katrina once said, “She’s like her mama. She knows when to act a fool and when to act like a lady.”

So our first mommy-daughter date (and celebration of Rat’s 11-month birthday!) was a rousing success. Maybe more dinners à deux are in our future.

Girls' Night Out.

Here’s hoping the majority of them occur at restaurants that do not feature ball pits.

Your optimistic and very proud
Kel

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7

Love Bombed

August 9, 2012

A couple weeks ago, my sorority sister Amy (the same Amy who helped me so much with Dr. Brandi’s bridal portrait shoot) sent me and several other women a Facebook message about one of the sweetest, cleverest, most thoughtful ideas I’ve ever heard of. Her sister-in-law is starting college this fall, and Amy plans to “snail-mail-bomb” her with weekly care packages containing fun and nostalgic items to help her navigate this enormous transition in her life. In them, she wanted to include letters from women she met through her own college experience. As she put it, “I’m writing to my sister friends for help in compiling one of the care packages I plan to give [Hannah]. I know each of you has a great story to tell about college, some wisdom to impart, funny or sad, practical or existential, so please get out your creative hat and share with [her]. Please be as creative or not as feels right for you. You can simply write a ‘top ten’ list of things you wish you knew or had to learn the hard way. You could send a photo with fashion advice or a list of your favorite books that you read in college.”

“No matter where you attended, what your major, who you dated, or how many years it took you to finish I value your stories immensely and think they will serve as a precious gift from sister to sister in how to thrive in college and beyond.”

Well, there’s very little I like to do more than write an old-fashioned letter, especially for a cause as dear as this one. I was in like Flynn.

I finished my letter and sent it off to Amy yesterday, and I thought you guys might like to read what I wrote. Here ’tis.

—-

8 August 2012

Dear [Hannah]:

As you begin your college experience, I wish you all the love, luck and happy times the world has to offer. People always like to call whatever time you’re currently in “the best years of your life,” whether you’re entering high school, starting college or beginning a new life with a spouse, and I suppose, when we look back one day, we might be able to call some period of time or another “the best years.” Regardless, I think it’s safe to say your college years are the time during which you will undergo the most radical transformation. In my own case, I can certainly say they were the most expansive. I learned SO MUCH – in my classes, from hanging out with people from different cultures and ways of life that were completely foreign to me and, most of all, about myself.

For me, college was mostly a happy time, but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that parts of it were painful. Now that I can look at those times more objectively, I know the painful parts were the result of intense, rapid growth, intellectually, psychologically and spiritually. Clear hindsight does not, of course, make them any less painful, but the pain that comes from that kind of personal development is an exquisite kind of pain that you can look back on and be glad you endured. Best of all, the friends that you make (and keep) while you’re undergoing that metamorphosis are the ones you’ll have all your life.

Amy tells me you’ve decided to go through Panhellenic recruitment. She and I met through our sorority, Delta Gamma, so I’m biased when I say I hope you decide to pledge. DG was one of the best experiences of my life, and aspects of it inform my day-to-day existence. Through it, I learned the impact that voluntarism can have on a community, the value of loyalty and the importance of being accountable to others. While every sorority girl maintains that her group is the best, I know those values are not unique to Delta Gamma. If you choose to join, don’t hold back from your new sisters – throw yourself headlong into the experience, and you will reap the rewards.

Since having a baby eight months ago, I’ve learned precisely how fist-bitingly annoying unsolicited advice can be, so I’ll keep it to the bare minimum. It’s just this: Don’t be afraid to change your mind. About people. About your beliefs. About your major. About your vision of yourself. About your intentions for your life. Keep growing, keep adjusting, keep changing and keep shifting. And remember that no mistake is so big that you can’t somehow make it right.

I’m a writer. (Yes, I do make money at it. Not everybody asks, but everyone wonders.) I never thought I would be a writer. For a long time, I didn’t even know I was good at writing (and some of my critics would argue that I’m still not). I did not major in English or journalism or any other writer-y things in college. I never wrote for a newspaper until four years ago. A writing career was for me an extremely happy accident. I believe in God, and I thank Him every day for letting me have a job that I love so much I would do it for free (and that I did, in fact, do for free every single day until 2008). I also pray to Him that I will never stop feeling like I am getting away with something and that at any moment I will be discovered and thrown out on my ear, so I better have as much fun as possible until that inevitability occurs.

From now on, I will pray that you will one day have a job that makes you feel like that, too.

Because I am a writer, books are sacred to me. Actually, I get a little weird if I go too long without handling a book. That’s probably not the sort of thing one should say in a letter to someone she doesn’t even know, but I work by myself from home, so you can probably imagine that, when finally given the chance to speak, I say inappropriate things a lot.

At any rate, for one of my birthdays in college, a friend gave me the book Tuesdays With Morrie by Mitch Albom. It’s become something of a cliché, but my philosophy is that clichés get to be clichés for good reason. It covers a lot of themes that are very relevant to a person entering the intellectual melting pot of college. If you haven’t read it, you should.

There. That’s my last bit of advice, I promise.

Recently, I downloaded a new wallpaper for my computer desktop, and it’s one I’m going to keep for a while. On a white background, in big, colorful, capital letters, it says, “BE YOURSELF. SERVE PEOPLE. ADD VALUE.”

I think that’s a pretty good motto for college and for life.

Go forward and be mighty!

Kelly Phelan Powell

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14

Stage Fright

July 27, 2012

A couple weeks ago, when I traveled to Birmingham for my sorority’s chapter reunion (more on that later), I undertook what was, by far, the most nerve-wracking photo shoot of my career to date. And yes, I am including my first shoot with Jennifer Robison in that statement.

I shot my best friend’s bridal portraits.

The location was the historic Alabama Theater, which made for a breathtaking backdrop but was a real challenge for me, lighting-wise. To complicate things even further, The Guy was on baby duty, so he couldn’t assist me.

Desperate, I posted on the reunion Facebook page: “I have kind of an odd request: I’m shooting Dr. Brandi’s bridal portraits Friday at 1:30 at the Alabama Theater (!!!!!), and I could really use an assistant, which, not being at home and all, I don’t have. Anybody interested in lending a hand???”

By that afternoon, I had a volunteer. Our sweet sister Amy flew in THAT DAY from Washington, D.C., hopped in her rental car and drove straight to the Alabama. Though she’d never so much as held a reflector in her life, she did the best job you can possibly imagine. It was meant to be. The three of us had the best time working together, catching up, laughing our heads off and wandering (unsupervised!) all over that lovely old theater.

And though I was so nervous I literally almost threw up on the way there, I’m pretty pleased with how Brandi’s bridals are turning out so far. Tell me what you think!

There was a lot of this going on that day.

Recognize that necklace?

That’s also the fascinator I bought to wear with my first wedding dress. Remember, the one I had to replace 11 days before my and The Guy’s wedding? All this time, I’ve been meaning to sell it on eBay or something, but I keep forgetting. Well, it just happens to match Dr. Brandi’s dress PERFECTLY!

—-

Dr. Brandi’s every bit as gorgeous as she is smart, and she’s just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. I’m so very blessed and lucky to have had her in my life all these years.

But just because she’s a blushing bride and all doesn’t mean I’m going to let her forget the many shenanigans we got up to, like that time in college when we got drunk in her dorm room and then decided to paint her toenails before we went out dancing that night and after we were done we decided we needed to change our majors to Art Things because we were clearly such GENIUSES but the next morning realized it looked like Koko the finger-painting gorilla had given her a pedicure. After suffering a traumatic brain injury.

And we thought those guys were staring at us because we looked so hot.

—-

You know, stuff like that.

Your much relieved
Kel

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