The Fabulous Nicole introduced me to Color Me Katie’s blog a little while ago, and it’s just the cutest little love bug of a blog, full of bright colors, gorgeous photos and happy dances. I likes.

This post on happiness made me particularly happy (check out her professor’s note: gold) and inspired me to focus on all the things that make me happy. There are so very many, but since I just got through dancing in the streets for Bay to Breakers, I’ll start there.

I love Bay to Breakers. It is San Francisco’s version of Mardi Gras and perhaps the best costume party ever (and you know how I feel about Mardi Gras and costume parties). Gold lamé hot pants, Madonna tunes and cocktails before noon? Yes, please!

I just wrote a guest blog post for a company called CreateWriteNow that has a mission I really believe in: using regular journaling to reduce stress, accomplish goals and become happier and healthier.

Here’s the full post…

For the last 15 years, I have kept a journal through my hardest and happiest times. The journals have looked different over the years, from crumpled spiral notebooks to sleek black sketchbooks, but they have always served the same purpose: to give me a safe place to vent, gloat, rage and muse about everything important phase of my life. My first journal helped me survive the dramatic ups and downs of middle school, and my latest has chronicled several cross-country moves and my first year of marriage.

I’ve often said my journal is my personal therapist, and I’m not exaggerating. During happy periods of my life, I check in occasionally, writing brief, scattered posts about trips I’ve taken or goals for the future. During challenging times, however, I write a lot and I write often. It is the only place I allow myself to be completely honest about how I’m feeling, and it is indispensable.

One example of these difficult periods is the year of 2005 to 2006. I graduated from college in New Orleans in May 2005, and everything was going perfectly. I was in a great relationship, I had a fantastic group of supportive friends and I had been accepted into a program teaching English in France for the upcoming school year. I was nervous about moving far away from my loved ones for so long, but I was excited for the new adventure.

Those crazy Loyola kids

On August 29, two weeks before I was supposed to fly from New Orleans to Paris, Hurricane Katrina hit and everything changed. All of a sudden, instead of attending farewell parties, I was scrambling to evacuate the city with my passport, camera and a couple days’ worth of clothes. A few weeks later, my friends were scattered across the US and I was alone in a foreign country to cope with the sadness, anger and guilt I felt as one of the lucky survivors of the storm. I was terribly lonely and homesick, but for the first time ever, I knew it wasn’t possible to go home.

Istres, France

I started writing in my journal every day as a necessary form of therapy. Each night, I scrawled page after page, trying to identify and sift through all of my conflicting emotions. I desperately missed my boyfriend, my friends and my city, and I was clumsily trying to move past the culture shock and make a home for myself in a new place. It felt incredibly cathartic to tell my journal everything I couldn’t even tell my closest friends. It was the perfect confidante; I could let it all out without fear of being judged for appearing weak or ungrateful or self-indulgent.

Just another day of sheep running through the village

My posts ranged from the frustrated…

I just really miss my people and I feel so isolated without a phone or Internet. During the good moments, I think, “I can do this. My French will eventually catch up to my brain. I’ll be glad I stuck with this.” During the bad moments, I think, “Why am I here? I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m far from everyone I love and I sound like an idiot when I speak French.”

… to the downright hysterical…

I hate France. I hate Istres. I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to go home. I’ve been sobbing uncontrollably all day and I can’t stop. I just want a freaking phone—is that so much to ask? I hate France Telecom with every fiber in my body. They screwed up and now it will be almost three weeks before I get a phone installed. Kill me. I’m in small town hell, and I hate everything French.

I shed a lot of tears over that journal for the first few months, but I also started using it to record my small victories. I wrote about the wonderful new friends I was making, the successful lessons I taught my students, the colorful French slang I was learning and the amazing food I was discovering. I now had stories to tell about my six-year-old students delightedly learning the words and motions to “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” and the day I spent harvesting olives and eating a two-hour mid-day feast at a local farm.

Gerald and Carmen

I pasted train ticket stubs and postcards and photos in the pages and started keeping lists of new words and phrases I wanted to remember (favorites that are appropriate to repeat are “C’est marrant!” – “How funny!” – and “Pas de soucis” – “No worries”). I even began writing half of my posts in French, which became easier and easier as the weeks progressed. Very gradually, my enthusiastic entries began to outnumber the tearful ones, and I was surprised to find that I was actually happy.

Hannah and me

Even though it was a difficult year for me, I look back on that journal fondly. It was a good friend to me when I needed one the most, and it helped me turn a painful time into a character-building experience. This is an excerpt from my final journal entry before I came back home:

In the end, I can honestly say that I don’t regret this experience. At times, it was almost unbearable because I was so frustrated or isolated or sad. But it’s all part of living abroad, and I’m proud of what I’ve done. There are people and things I will miss, but I am ready and happy to go home. Et voila, it’s the end of this adventure—till the next!

Writing this post really struck a chord with me because I see a lot of parallels with my life at the moment. I was living far from both of my homes (the Bay Area and New Orleans) and navigating all the heartache and craziness that go along with a long-distance relationship. Now Brian is deployed again, and as always, I’m surprised by how hard even three months apart can be.

My situation right now is much easier than in France because I have already established a strong network of friends in Hawaii, and I’m able to keep busy with work and fun activities. Also, I can usually understand the local language without a dictionary. But there are still rough patches, and writing this post reminded me how important my journal is during those times. Blogging and Facebook and Twitter have tried to replace my journal recently, but though those are all great tools for expression, they don’t serve the same purpose at all. They’re public ways of communicating my thoughts, and my journal is the raw, uncensored, as-crazy-as-I-wanna-be medium for working through my issues.

Lately, I’ve been avoiding my journal because I simply don’t feel like dealing with the thoughts and emotions it forces me to face. It’s a whole lot easier to zone out to my DVR queue than write honestly about how I feel, but I miss journaling. And I know it will help. I’m going to start writing in my journal at least once a week again, even if it’s just a few lines at a time.

What about you? Do you keep a journal? Why?

New Year’s Resolution #2: Try new recipes and host more dinner parties.

I already love to cook, and I cook a lot, but sometimes I get a little safe and predictable. Fish, pasta, stir-fry. Lather, rinse, repeat. Dinner parties push me to be bolder and more adventurous in the kitchen, and there is nothing better than enjoying a home-cooked, five-hour-plus feast (and many bottles of wine) with a group of friends.

Brian and I decided to get ambitious last weekend. We invited a bunch of people we know (and some we sort of know) over to our wee apartment for our very first Saturday night supper club. The concept is simple:

1. Send out an invitation to a bunch of people and accept the first 10 to 20 who can make it (we capped ours at 15 because there’s no way we could cram any more into our place), friends of friends and plus-ones more than welcome. Ask people to bring whatever they want to drink, a $20 donation and an empty belly.

2. Create a menu, preferably based on a theme (you know how we love themes). We were originally going to do a Carnival theme in time for Mardi Gras, but scheduling and procrastination got in the way, and it became a Lenten theme (Are you giving up something for Lent? Too bad! We’re probably serving it.).

3. Make the apartment presentable, cook like crazy, eat, drink and be merry!

I’ve been fascinated with supper clubs for a few years, after reading about underground versions in big cities and attending a delicious event thrown by The Ghetto Gourmet, a “wandering supper club” in San Francisco. I love the idea of taking a bunch of foodies– some friends and some strangers– and throwing them together at the same dinner table.

I had toyed with the idea of starting one here but always came up with excuses not to: we don’t really know that many people here, it sounds like a lot of work, what if no one wants to come, that sort of thing. Then Melia and Darren sent us a copy of Forking Fantastic! Put the Party Back in Dinner Party, written by two hilarious women who have been hosting Sunday night dinners twice a month for years in New York City. Their attitude is refreshingly unpretentious and approachable, their recipes and tips are great and their bottom-line message is: you can do this, so stop being a wuss and just give it a shot. That sealed the deal. We had to do this. Read this excerpt from their book and tell me you’re not inspired:

We do it because at every meal, our extended social community reknits itself in a fascinating way: The former priest turned calligraphy professor sits next to the design-school student; the hedge fund guy chats with the environmental activist. Neighbors drop by and meet people who live on the other side of the city. Sometimes they’re all crammed on a sofa together; sometimes they get to sprawl out in the yard and spot lightning bugs in the grass. But our “hungry kiddies” (as we’ve come to call them in our email invitations) always surprise us with their willingness to eat just about anything we throw at them and their enthusiasm for talking to whoever winds up sitting in the next chair. We know from experience: Some of the best friendships are forged around the dinner table– and in the kitchen.

Food, wine, community. These are the things that make me happiest. We had 10 people at our first supper club, and everyone had a blast (or they’re very good at faking it). The food was pretty darn good, the wine and mint juleps flowed generously and the guests got along swimmingly. It was a relaxed, decidedly un-fancy affair, with mismatched plates, plastic folding chairs and brown butcher paper in lieu of tablecloths. Martha Stewart would have had a heart attack, which means it was exactly my kind of party. I’m looking forward to making this a monthly affair, and I hope we’ll continue to have a fantastic mix of people and food.

Check out the complete menu and a few recipes here. Brian is going on a three-month deployment in a couple weeks, so we’ll have to wait a bit for another supper club event, but I’m already brainstorming ideas for the next theme. Suggestions?

Happy New Year! I’ve got a good feeling about 2010. There’s just something so balanced and wholesome about the sound of it… so balanced and wholesome that I’ve decided to make a few tentative New Year’s resolutions for the first time in many moons. I realize “tentative resolution” may sound like an oxymoron, but I fear commitment and “resolution” has a finality that scares me. I say keep ’em tentative; much better to write in pencil than in permanent marker.

I have only three rules for these quasi-reso-whatevers:

1. They must be fun.
2. They must be flexible.
3. They must not inspire guilt.

That is all. In other words, I will only aim for goals that make me happy, I will change my fickle mind any time I like and I will not starve myself to lose 30 pounds by bikini season (HA, it’s always bikini season here so that’s just silly).

Resolution #1: Get Scuba Certified

I’ve talked about this one for a long time, and I’m both exhilarated and apprehensive about the idea of exploring the depths of the big bad ocean.

Pros: seeing incredible marine life, reefs and even shipwrecks. Cons: The movie “Open Water.” Since I refused to see “Open Water” under any circumstances, the pros win.

All reservations aside, there is absolutely no better time to take the plunge (tee hee). I live in Hawaii, which is surrounded by some of the most beautiful dive spots in the world, and the Marine Corps Base 15 minutes away is offering a winter special for $159 per person. It would be crazy not to do it. Brian and I paid our fees today, and we start classes Monday. You’re mine, ocean.

What are your fun goals for 2010? More of mine to come…

For the first time in years, the holidays are going to be blissfully simple. Travel-free, present-free, stress-free beautiful simplicity. Brian and I are staying here in Hawaii, and my family is coming to us to celebrate. My parents just left after a fantastic and far-too-short visit, and Melia and Darren are staying through Christmas (cheers to work-from-home buddies).

Matsumoto’s shave ice in Haleiwa

We all agreed that we don’t need to spend more money or receive more things, so instead of exchanging gifts we have been treating ourselves to some amazing meals together. It’s a tradition we’ve been moving toward the last few years, and I fully support all future gifts being offered in caloric form.

Yet another classy toothless photo of Brian

I’m a little bit sad I won’t be in Sonoma for Christmas (through all my moves over the years, I have always made it home), but I’m mostly relieved to be able to stay put for once. No flying from coast to coast or trying to pack a dozen dinners and happy hours into one week; no frantically shopping for gifts at the last minute because I am a horrible, horrible procrastinator. Just taking it easy in my new home with some of my favorite people.

The biggest challenge of spending Christmas in Hawaii will probably be convincing myself that it is, in fact, Christmas. It’s a bit of a tough sell when it’s 80 degrees out, I’m planning a boating trip for next weekend and Brian recently got a vicious sunburn at the beach.

And no, I am not complaining about living in a tropical paradise; I am not a cold weather person, and I am absolutely OK with wearing flip-flops (I’m sorry… “slippers”) in the dead of winter. But there is something a little off about decorating a tree, listening to “White Christmas” and drinking egg nog when every fan in the house is on full blast and I’m in a full-body sweat. It’s already December 15 and I am nowhere near the holiday spirit. This will not stand, man. I need some Christmas cheer and fast. I propose a three-pronged plan of action:

• Carols. Lots of ’em. There is nothing like “All I Want for Christmas is You” and “Santa Baby” on loop to set the mood. Melia brought our family staple, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas,” and I just purchased our childhood favorite, New Kids on the Block’s “Merry, Merry Christmas” (we have it on cassette back home). We may or may not dance and sing along to “Funky, Funky Xmas” every single time it comes on. Brian and Darren are in for quite a treat.

• Cookies. Our mom makes some unbelievably delicious Christmas cookies every year (one recipe is called “butter dream cookies” if that is any indication) and brought a huge container of them all the way to Hawaii for us. Brian and I got a KitchenAid mixer (read: the appliance I have lusted after for years) as a wedding present, which means I can finally make Lil Mom’s crack-filled cookies away from home for the first time ever. Good thing we burn so many calories dancing to NKOTB.

• Decorations. Brian’s parents sent us a beautiful wreath for our door, and every time I walk by it, I have to bury my nose in it and breathe in that glorious pine smell. My neighbors are starting to ask questions. I absolutely need to buy a Christmas tree that I can sniff to my heart’s content and decorate with the pipe-cleaner-and-clothespin ornaments I made in elementary school and have been saving until I had a tree of my own someday.

It’ll be a blend of new and old traditions this year, which I suppose is fitting for my first year as a bona fide grown-up married lady. Happy holidays, everyone. I’ll be sure to drink a mai tai and have an extra funky, funky Christmas for those of you who are far away.

Many of you have asked me about these recently, so I feel that it’s my duty to share them with the world.

These are the basic rules to what can only be described as the greatest drinking game of all time. Now before you get all preachy on me about how drinking games are juvenile and contribute to unhealthy habits, hear me out. It’s called Dawson’s Drink, and it’s based around the best angsty teen television series EVER, “Dawson’s Creek.” (If you disagree with that last statement, we can clearly not continue our friendship. Move along now.) Yes, the dialogue is ridiculous, the clothes are atrocious (I was sooo much more stylish in 1997), the acting is shaky, and yet it creates the perfect storm of hilarity and drama and genuine entertainment. In other words, it is the ideal canvas on which to paint a masterpiece drinking game.

My brilliant friends and I came up with it one hot and humid night in New Orleans last year, and it has evolved beautifully as we add new players and progress through the series.

Don’t wait. Go play Dawson’s Drink right now.

The Number One Rule:

Every player must choose one of the four main characters (Dawson, Joey, Pacey and Jen)– it’s OK if more than one player is assigned to each character. Every time that character says something no teenager would ever say, drink. New players must be Dawson at least once during their first game. *As other pivotal characters are introduced to the cast (Andie, Jack, etc.), feel free to add them to the mix.

You must also drink when:

• Anyone wears mom jeans
• There is a Steven Spielberg reference
• There is an allusion to Dawson’s future career as a famous filmmaker
• Jen’s grandmother calls someone by their full Christian name (Jennifer, Josephine, etc.)
• Jen’s grandmother brings up God or Jesus
• There is a reference to Jen’s sordid past in New York
• Joey climbs in or out of Dawson’s bedroom window
• Dawson’s parents are getting it on
• Pacey awkwardly tries to hit on girls
• There is an episode clearly ripped off from a movie plot (for example: “The Breakfast Club” or “The Blair Witch Project” episodes)

Optional rules (warning: these happen really frequently). Drink when:

• Joey makes that terrible smirk/pout/grimace/constipation face
• Someone is in a boat
• Someone is gazing pensively out at the water

Bonus rules for the true Dawson’s aficionado (these are from Mr. Chuck Alexander, whose pop culture prowess is damn near unbeatable):

• There is a stipulation that a two-thirds majority can vote to make the Pacey Designate drink whenever he actually says something a teenager would say (a good time to put this rule into effect is mid-Season 1 post-Ms. Jacobs hookup, pre-Andy McPhee).
• For Season 2 (though only Season 2 as they manage to drop this aspect of his character after the evil English teacher makes him out himself to the whole school by reading his poem aloud), drink any time Jack does something clumsy or mentions how clumsy he is.
• Any episode featuring Cliff:  a mandatory group drink any time he does or says something creepy (this also applies later to Michael Pitt’s character Henry, who is so creepy that I genuinely believe he collects dead squirrels).

I hope this inspires you to bring the wonder of Dawson’s Drink to your next party. Enjoy, and feel free to add your own rules in the comments section below!

It’s been awhile since I’ve made time to blog, which I blame on two reasons:

No, a different two reasons…

Reason #1. I’ve been living the dream in Hawaii. Yes, you’re probably all sick of hearing about how beautiful and wonderful it is here, but well… I’m sorry, the truth hurts. I love the weather and the laidback pace of life and the postcard-worthy backdrop of mountains and sea. I love that I now have a list of friends I can call when I want to work/watch YouTube videos in a coffee shop or see the latest chick flick or declare “Margarita Wednesday” a legitimate staple of each week. I love that I’ve already had three fabulous visitors this summer, with many more to come in the next few months. I’m happy here, and now that Brian is home from deployment, life isn’t too shabby. There is still so much to see and explore, and it’s exciting to know we won’t have to move again for at least another year.

Reason #2. This summer has been a series of events I like to call “Teach Gill to be more Zen and less attached to material possessions.” In the course of a few months, I lost three cameras (including my beloved old Canon DSLR) and an iPod in an auto theft and my MacBook hard drive in a devastating computer crash. I lost a lot of photos and music, shed a few tears and wallowed in self-pity a bit, but I’m trying to bounce back and move on. The silver lining is that our renters’ insurance covered the cost of my stolen camera equipment, so I was able to buy a newer, more awesome camera (RIP, 10-D). I’m hoping it’ll motivate me to document more of our life here.

I may be missing a few snapshots from the last few months, but that doesn’t make those months any less fabulous. Here’s to happy times and fresh starts…

The YouthNoise ladies have a work retreat… and snorkel the heck out of Hanauma Bay

Kathleen and I have eight years of pictures of us making these faces

Tracey takes her BFF Molly out for a beer

OMG, Kenny Rogers goes to Creekside!

Chafee homecoming! Flowers for everyone

We get to celebrate Nicole’s birthday and the fact that we’re all on the same coast

Bad Lisa, no licking

We show that “Real World: D.C.” crew how it’s done

Beautiful wedding, beautiful couple

But not as beautiful as this couple

Brian and I bust a move at the first wedding we’ve been to besides our own

The after-party rages on in the hotel lobby

Margarita Wednesday on the beach

Tiff and Zac’s wine tasting party o’ fun (not to brag, but our wine may have won the grand prize)

It’s hot as hell on the way up Diamond Head, but the view is worth it

Glorious news. Brian and I spent a few tedious, yet rewarding, hours on Friday evening updating the design and functionality of this fine blog you are reading. Voila! (And yes, we are huge dorks who voluntarily spend Friday nights tinkering with Photoshop, WordPress and BlueHost. Go ahead and judge.)

I’m pretty darn happy with it and am thanking my lucky stars I married a man who can A) design a kickass pirate-hula-girl-themed masthead and B) keep me from throwing my computer off the balcony in a frustrated rage. This is just the kick in the pants I need to start writing more often, so stay tuned for more in the coming days and weeks.

Smooches,

Gill

I’d like to preface the following with the important fact that most of the Navy wives I have met here are damn cool ladies. They are smart and funny and independent and generally awesome people. They are women I would want to be friends with, whether or not our husbands shared an occupation, and for that I am very grateful.

That said, what’s the deal with some of these other Navy wives? Have I somehow stumbled into a Lifetime original series?

On the one hand, it can be comforting to talk to women who know exactly what you are going through– excruciatingly long deployments, bureaucratic red tape, ridiculous difficulty planning anything further than two weeks in advance. On the other hand, that can’t be all we have to talk about.

I’ve been a little unsettled by the Navy wives I’ve met here who don’t seem to have an identity outside of being a Navy wife. Instead of asking what I do for a living or what my interests are, they ask what my husband does on the ship and where we have been stationed in the past. They sign emails “Have a great Navy day!” and drop acronyms I don’t understand into normal conversation. They form hierarchies based on the rank of their husbands instead of on any merits of their own. I kind of want to shake them and scream, “We are not in the Navy!” If Brian talked this much to his friends about my job, I would be seriously concerned about him.

Honestly, I find it a little insulting. The Navy may play a large role in my life right now, whether I like it or not, but it is not actually my life. I do not work on a ship; therefore, I find talking incessantly about what happens on a ship strange and annoying. Bottom line: I don’t really care what your husband does; I want to know who you are. What do you like to do? What do we have in common? I was a complete person before I married into this role, and I plan to remain that way. I have a job, I have hobbies, I have dreams… and believe it or not, all these things are not wrapped up in my “hubby’s” job (related note: the word “hubby” makes my skin crawl; don’t do it).

It’s funny because the possibility that I might someday become a Navy wife has been a running joke with our friends since Brian and I started dating back in college. Haha, the barefoot NorCal feminist is going to have to learn to be a proper lady and not say outlandish things at dinner with the admiral. Kind of like “Pretty Woman,” except for the minor detail that I am not a hooker.

We all joked about the Navy wife stereotype, but I didn’t actually expect it to be true in real life. I don’t know how to cope with it aside from what I’m already doing: bitching/laughing about it, hanging out with people I like and avoiding the others like the plague. Other suggestions are welcome.

Brian and I have been married for six months today, which, by Us Weekly standards, means one of us should be dating Angelina Jolie by now. I probably wouldn’t have noticed the date if my wonderful sister hadn’t emailed me with the note: “I’ve been thinking about your six-month wedding anniversary for a while, wanting to give you something to commemorate it. Attached is the extended remix of the toast I gave at the reception, including the parts that I left out because I was winging it up there. Happy anniversary!”

I don’t like to brag, but I have the best sister ever. No, no, I’m sure your sister is cool and all, but I win. Deal with it. Thank you for this, Melia. It made me weep at the wedding, and I still get a little verklempt every time I read it. I can’t wait till the day when I get to return the favor, grabbing the mike after a few too many glasses of champagne and slurring, “You can’ have ‘er… she’s mine!”

Toasting with my two favorite people

To Gill and Brian
Maid of Honor’s Toast
January 17, 2009

As you may know, I’m Gill’s older sister by three years. We’ve been close throughout our lives, and she’s one of my favorite people on this earth. There’s something about having a sister so close in age that’s like nothing else. We have the same mannerisms, and it’s common for us to say things in unison. We have almost a secret language that comes from the roughly 10,000 inside jokes that date back over 20 years. I say one word and she’ll know what I’m talking about. That’s why no one will ever play the game of Taboo with us.

Just as there’s a special bond that comes with being sisters, there’s also a special kind of torment that an older sister reserves for the younger one. My mom likes to tell a story about when I was three years old and dragging my blanket down the hall…with little baby Gill asleep on the end. I told my mom that I was taking my blanket back. I also used to hide her stuffed orange Kitty, which she loved, in places like the freezer, or the microwave, and she would tell my mom she knew I was up to something because I was “smiling my mean smile.” I told her that I didn’t know what she was talking about. [Ed. note: This was the point in the toast when Darren confirmed my accusation that Melia has a mean smile. It’s a fact; it’s time to admit it.]

Probably right before she tried to feed the baby raisins

Of course, we had tons of happy times, too. We used to dress up Barbies while we watched terrible daytime TV during school vacations. We decorated the Christmas tree every year while listening to “Funky Funky Xmas” by New Kids on the Block. Actually, we still do.

San Francisco, 1986

Gill has always been so mature that I’ve always felt more a peer than someone three years older and wiser. I’ve always admired her for being the trailblazer in our family. She got her ears pierced first, moved across the country first, and now she’s getting married first. People ask me if it’s strange for me to have my little sister get married first, and I tell them that I love it, because when it’s my turn, she can tell me what to do.

I’ve always admired Gill for her courage to try new things no matter what anyone else is doing, and for so many other reasons. She has the entire package — she’s intelligent and beautiful, adventurous and active, creative and funny. And the biggest feat of all is that people don’t hate her for it. Quite the opposite. Girls love her because she will take them for a manicure and a martini when they’re feeling down. Guys love her because she’ll drink Miller High Lifes and play tackle football. It’s impossible not to love her. In fact, there’s a Cowboy Mouth song called “Everybody Loves Jill,” and they do not tell a lie.

I could never picture a guy who would suit Gill, a guy who A) wouldn’t be intimidated by all of her charms, and B) would bring just as much to the table. Brian surprised me by having both of these qualities and being an excellent fit for Gill. He shares her sense of humor, and like Gill, he’s smart, passionate, artistic, and really really ridiculously good-looking. One day they will have children and give rise to a superior hybrid race. When they do have kids, don’t be surprised if you never get a traditional holiday card from their family, the kind of posed studio portrait with matching sweaters. Instead, they’ll all probably dress up as Christmas pirates or will be leaping around in full-body spandex and afro wigs. (Brian, I’m not referring to any real events here).

Gill and Brian’s song, which will be their first dance and inspired the inscription on their rings, is Jack Johnson’s “Better Together,” and they really are. They’re one of those couples where the girl is cool, the guy is cool, and together they’re fantastic. They’re two talented individuals who have a synergy, meaning that their combined energy is more powerful than each alone.

I know that we’re all relieved that they’ll actually be ABLE to be together, since they’ve had to be apart during much of their four-year relationship. The summer after Gill’s college graduation, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and they had to evacuate. At that point, Gill left for France and they did long distance for the better part of a year. Then Brian was deployed, came back briefly, and was deployed again. When Gill and Bri finally settle into a normal routine, I think we’ll have to storm their house in the middle of the night just to make them feel at home.

Brian, you are one lucky guy to get to be Gill’s husband. I know this because I got to be her pseudo-husband when Gill and I lived together in San Francisco during your first deployment. She and I would make nachos and watch our favorite TV shows every week, go grocery shopping together, and even be each other’s date for weddings. (Sorry, that’s why she tries to lead now every time you two dance.) When she moved away, I missed my partner in crime like crazy. I used to burst into tears every time I walked past her bedroom door. The only thing that made it easier was knowing that you two were happy. Plus, I bought a spinning wheel and a few dozen cats to keep me company until I met Darren.

Gill, I can’t believe that you’re all growns up. I can’t tell you how much you mean to me, and how happy I am that you’ve found the perfect guy for you. I can’t wait until we live in the same place again.

Brian, I know you appreciate Gill as much as I do, and you’ll be as good a husband to her as I was. Welcome to the family. You fit right in, and we love you already.

Now, everyone, please raise your glasses for a toast. Baby Sis, and my new Little Bro, may your lives continue to be better together. Cheers!