The severe thunderstorm warnings finally subsided. In fact, the sun came out with such intensity that the rain didn’t stand a chance for the rest of the evening. A half-hour before the ceremony, our friends pitched in to drag 200 chairs from under the tent where they had been set up with the assumption the ceremony would be completely washed out.

From that moment on, nothing could have been more perfect. We ate, drank, laughed, danced and even roasted marshmallows. Many of our friends camped out in tents and then we all greeted the sunrise on Sunday morning. I can honestly say that it may have been, to date, the best day/evening/night/dawn/morning of my life. And I’m 99 percent positive Ben agrees.

On the 43-hour drive back to Los Angeles, Ben and I filled each other in on the moments the other had missed and relived the moments we shared. We decided that our vows were exciting, our dance was lovely and that the weather, food, cake, speeches and even the dancing were all amazing. But the very best thing about everything was watching our parents smile, our families relax and all of our friends come together to celebrate with us. It meant so much that so many people cared to show up despite the mud and chance of stormy weather.

Aside from providing the opportunity to have the best and biggest party of our lives, marriage hasn’t changed our relationship much. I don’t think Ben suddenly has a ball-and-chain attached to his ankle. I still have boys for friends and girls’ nights out. And neither of us expect the other to act or live differently. We talk about following our individual dreams and supporting each other in any way we can. We discuss making decisions based upon what is best for our family — which for now consists of him and me, as well as our dog Big.

When I catch a glimpse of the ring on his finger, I must admit I smile and feel this giddy rush of happiness. I feel confident that, like me, he is willing and proud to display this extraordinary symbol of our commitment to each other.

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I never intended to keep my own last name — taking my husband’s moniker was one of the few marriage traditions I never thought to contest. Recently though, I started to feel a little sad about replacing my name, which has always defined me.

Unlike my blue eyes and light brown hair, my last name reveals my Italian heritage. Generations of Platinos still gather Sunday afternoon to the house my father was raised in for a relaxing day of homemade sauce, meatballs and watching the youngsters play tee ball in the front yard. We still prepare eleven fish dishes for Christmas Eve and love nothing more than family and food — which we are loud, emotional and passionate about.

Soon I will be Laura Shields. It sounds pretty great, and I am honored to be a Shields. Ben’s family is amazing and beautiful. It isn’t about taking his name as much as it is about losing mine. I will mourn the loss because without it, and without big brown eyes, dark hair or any classic Italian features, my cultural authenticity is not evident. I like people knowing I am Italian because it is something I am proud of, and truly cherish.

My sister assured me the panic would pass, but she can’t exactly relate with her big beautiful brown eyes, dark thick hair and a name change from Platino to Polvino.

So I started coming up with alternatives. What if Ben took my name? What if I hyphenated? I could keep my own name and Ben would hold onto his. The last option seemed the most acceptable so I began making a case for keeping my name. After all, wouldn’t it complicate my writing career if I change my name? Would I have to submit stories or my screenplay under a new name?

A week of mulling it over ended when I was going through a box of pictures I pulled out of my closet. I held up one taken a few years ago at the Shields’ annual 4th of July family gathering. I remember them making me put on a matching T-shirt one of the cousins had made for everyone to celebrate that year and then pulling me into the frame. They were my family even back then, before the thought of marriage had crossed our minds. I realized, sitting in my room surrounded by pictures of my family and his, that I wasn’t losing anything. The pasta, the kisses on both cheeks, the eleven-course Christmas dinners and everything else that comes along with my Italian family wouldn’t suddenly disappear. My last name would still exist even if my checks or library card said differently.

Now I’m looking forward to the traditions, quirks and adventures of being a Shields. I still want to pay tribute to my maiden name though, so I’m having Ben tattoo “Platino” in tiny letters on my wrist.

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My sister and I look alike, fingers and smiles cut from the same cloth. She’s never known life without me in it and the first memories I can recall are of her birth. When our parents divorced, we packed the same suitcase and rode the backseats of several vehicles from Renton to Kent to Edgewood and back again. Joint custody defined our childhood – we were a unit designed to separate.

This kind of shared independence bore “great passions,” as we like to call them. Years past, our first split interest is easy to spot; while I dove headfirst into anything theatre, Nora was off to Germany on the invitation of my stepmother’s Deutsch family. I could have gone with her, but it was either Brackenheim or dance lessons; for both of us, the choice was clear.

Nora spent two weeks in the Rhineland, returning with a passion of her very own. She WOULD speak German. I teased her for answering most questions with an exuberant “ja, ja!” but was secretly impressed by her fervor. Nora narrated our day to day with nouns printed on white stickers: de lit, de douche, mein swester.

She moved out of my life slowly, with the baby steps necessary for such a distance. A year spent in Frieburg through her college exchange; a room in the International dorm where students were encouraged to speak in their language of choice; an au pair opportunity after graduation which lead to a job teaching English to Germans. Now she lives in Dresden, going on year two of working for the Berlitz school.

My sister came home for her senior year of college and we reveled in our newfound adult relationship. We got matching haircuts (unplanned!) and shared an awe at our easy communication. In the relay race of 20-something social interaction, I have always felt most solidly myself when together with Nora. And then, there’s the whole gene pool thing – our similar way of being boggles my mind.

Three summers ago she stayed on my couch for the weekend, unsure about her future. She confided in me, “I know that I could be happy in Seattle, living like you do. I don’t know if I will find that going back, but if I stay, where will I use my German?” As much as I would puzzle over my motives later on, I gave her the advice I would have given my best friend: Take the chance. Follow your dream. You’ll always have a home in Seattle.

That she will, but it’s been over a year since I’ve looked her in the eye and it’s only going to increase. As we both look at our jam-packed calendars, the face of  reality overshadows sisterdom: paid vacation, jet lag, time differences, job commitments…all important. All between us.

On the surface I’m happy with our choices. Yet, in the pit of my stomach, I ache when I think of a future minus sister. It’s childish, I know, but that’s who we are to each other. My solace? We floated in the same womb. That means something, despite the millions of individual choices available upon exodus. I know she feels the same way as I do, because how could she not? We’re both Peachey and we always will be.

photo by gero langisch

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I spent the past week in Minnesota for no other reason than my brother graduated from law school and the entire family flew into town to support and celebrate his endeavors. Like any graduation weekend, it was complete chaos. Between the 15 of us, there were five hotel rooms, four rental cars, and two kids under the age of three. You can imagine that choosing a restaurant alone necessitated an event planner.

The weekend was a ball of confusion, miscommunication, who’s riding in whose car, and why isn’t so-and-so answering his phone? For those of you who have big families, you know that it’s absolute mayhem trying to coordinate plans, to arrive anywhere on time, to have everyone happy at the same time and the frustration of our mother wanting to “keep everything running smoothly.”

However, despite the overwhelming stress, the lack of sleep (because nieces and nephews insist on waking you up two hours earlier than you would like), the 10 year sibling fires that get rekindled, and the unprecedented patience required for the molasses like progress we make, no matter what, we’re family and that’s what family does. The definition of family varies for everyone; it can be your closest friends, your teammates, or your coworkers but either way, it’s your “crew” and, for them, you’d do anything.

The beauty of my family is that at the end of the day we’re on the same team and when my brother walked across that stage, all the chaos, annoyance and frustration it took to get us to the graduation in the first place melted away and the Jones clan jumped to our feet, with tears running down our cheeks and cheered for Josh with more pride than if we’d just cured cancer. Suddenly, everything else became irrelevant and we were able to focus on the reason we were there in the first place.

That’s when it occurred to me that we put up with all the other stuff in life because we know that, when push comes to shove, we have a group of people who would do anything for us. The Jones family certainly isn’t perfect, we are a blend of half’s, step’s, and blurred lines that would make our family tree more of a spider web than anything remotely linear, but we have the one ingredient that supersedes everything else. We have unwavering, unconditional love for each other.

Relationships, in general, are not about being perfect or never butting heads; they’re about knowing that, in spite of all the imperfections, the ego, pride, mistakes, and hurt feelings, no one is going anywhere. My family certainly has our flaws, but when it’s time to rally, the Jones crew is willing to weather any storm because we know all hands will be on deck and if we lose someone overboard, you better believe we aren’t leaving that man behind.

Because, at the end of the day, relationships are messy, dramatic and, at times, can make you want to commit a homicide, but my goodness they are worth it when you’re sick and need someone to bring you soup and crackers. The people who can push your buttons like no one else are the same people who can cheer you up during life’s greatest disappointments and believe in you when it seems like everyone in world has turned their backs on you.

Regardless of who I “grow up to be,” of what contributions I leave this world (big or small) and despite what mistakes I’m sure to make, the foundation of who I am and my self worth remains unaffected because it’s made of unbreakable titanium: my family.

While I enjoy the uninterrupted sleep, the simplicity of my own schedule and the peacefulness of my beautiful apartment, I wouldn’t trade a minute of Jones drama – for they are and always will be the best part of who I am. Thank you, family, for an incredible weekend and reminding me of what really matters in life, something easily forgotten here in La La Land.

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It’s what scientists have nicknamed the “bonding hormone” or the “love hormone.” Not just for lovers, oxytocin levels rise in our blood when we genuinely care for another person, including friends and family. It plays an important part in the bond between mother and child, since large amounts of oxytocin are released during the contractions of childbirth. You might be familiar with the feeling of this hormone and neurotransmitter in your bloodstream if you recall the good feeling you get when you care for another person.

Though first understood as a hormone that only played a part in childbirth, recent studies have demonstrated it is more complex then originally assumed. As alluded to above, it may have an effect on how we bond with other people. This became a point of investigation when it was discovered that oxytocin levels shoot up in both males and females after an orgasm. Even more interestingly, the hormone affects the brain, but conversely the brain also affects the way the hormone works. This means, the stronger your care for another person, the stronger the effect of the hormone on you. A stronger bond may also help release higher levels of the hormone.

A recent study demonstrated this by measuring the oxytocin levels of females. Participants were asked to recall positive and negative experiences about their partners and were also given massages, since oxytocin is triggered by personal touch. But hormone levels did not rise uniformly across the participants when recalling positive experiences. Rather, the variable factor in whether the hormone rose had to do with the way participants rated the stability of their relationships.

This variable effect explains why some people feel a deepening bond with another person through sex, and others feel nothing at all. Sex or even an orgasm with another doesn’t necessarily mean your partner will be smitten with you, even though oxytocin rises from the orgasm contractions. Some scientists surmise that this hormone may play an important part in authentic monogamy because of this.

You can consciously create higher levels of oxytocin in your bloodstream, simply by touching, caressing and caring for another. This also might play a part in why people without this type of contact become skin hungry—that is long for the touch of others, not necessarily in a sexual context. Human touch, cuddling, and massage all feel good for us. The increased levels of oxytocin in your blood after a sensual massage may deepen your orgasm and sexual satisfaction.

Not only does oxytocin create good feelings, it has positive effects on the body including decreased levels of stress, reduced cravings, and increased sexual receptivity. I did happen to read about one company that produces an oxytocin nasal spray and promises many of these benefits from using the spray, but I can’t really attest to this. My advice? Find someone you care about and work on producing the hormone naturally. Even if it’s not your sack buddy, you’ll get some good feelings out of it.

photo by Andrius Mažeika

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Emily G.: My mom is a big mush so if I write her a heartfelt card or a poem, she cries every time (a good cry). Or if I hang out with my mom socially she sees how proud I am or her and she feels pretty damn special….because she is! And I love surprising her by showing up at her doorstep. Works every time!

Cassy: My mom and I are pretty close, keeping in touch through email, phone calls and Facebook.  Whenever I stumble across an old photo of us or of our family or of me at a geeky phase, I email her a copy and we giggle over the old times from a distance.

Alexis: I love to make my mom feel special by mailing her a huge care package that has homemade cookies, a gift certificate to the spa, photos from our latest trip, a copy of her favorite movie, a thoughtful card, and two movie tickets so she can plan a date night. Living out of state is not an excuse to make momma not feel special on her day!

Kenzie: I’m never quite sure what to do for my mom to let her know how awesome she is. I once flew across the country to surprise her and she flipped out wondering if I was okay. (Probably goes to show I could use a bit more practice with gestures like this.) I try to do little things like organizing a family get-together or making sure I take a few minutes out of my day to talk to her…but we like to make fun of each other a lot too . No matter what I do, I feel it could never be enough. The debt there is just too big…but I’m working on it.

August: My mom loves each of her five kids equally but differently. She’s taught us to follow our hearts, do what makes us happy, walk firmly in faith, choose our partners carefully (”Most men need lessons – I got lucky with your father!”) and enjoy life thoroughly. I hope, as she sees all of us doing our best to live our lives the way she’s taught us, she has a mere inkling of the fantastic mother she is. Love you, Mom! Wish we were thrift store shopping this weekend… Love, “Putsu”

Morgan: My mom is pretty fabulous, so I enjoy spending time just hanging out with her. Whether the two of us are scrolling the clearance racks at the mall, making a mess baking an endless supply of Christmas cookies that neither one of us can actually devour, or analyzing the finer points of an episode of House, we always seem to have fun together. I think we make each other feel special because we are more than mother and daughter – we’re friends.

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I had my first official “quarterlife crisis” last week. In the middle Board meeting, I excused myself, stepped outside, and booked a ticket home to Austin. I flew home approximately 12 hours later and just fell into my mom and dad’s arms as they anxiously awaited my arrival. I could tell they were nervous when I called them in tears and simply said, “I booked a ticket and I’ll be home tomorrow night. Can y’all pick me up from the airport?” You know you have good parents when they hear the distress in your voice and, rather than ask a million questions, they simply replay, “Of course. So happy you’re coming home.”

Now I don’t know what it is for you, your friends, a vacant shack in the middle of nowhere, or the privacy of your bedroom you run to but, for me, it’s the welcoming arms of a huge Texas family and home cooking. Maybe it’s just that I’m exhausted, maybe it’s because I’m just homesick or questioning my priorities, my passion and my purpose. But all I know is, like a little kid, I went running home because whatever it was, I felt like I was buckling under the pressure of adulthood’s responsibilities and expectations.

However, despite my much needed R&R, I came home to the most chaotic, depressing, unexpected  storm possible. It’s like I was trying to avoid a hurricane and fled to an island halfway across the world, only to get hit by a tsunami. The morning I arrived, I found out a dear friend had just passed away. Two hours later I was updated that one of our closest family friends was literally “missing” and that my ex-boyfriend had officially moved on (and in) with his girlfriend. Regardless, the ol’ saying, “When it rains it pours” could not be more appropriate for the past week of my life.

That’s when it occurred to me, in my pity party of one, that while we can plan and perfectly orchestrate our lives, at the end of the day, there are times when we simply have to grab out floaties and hold on for dear life. Since I pride myself on “being the author of my own life” and “dictating life on my terms,” it’s always humbling to find yourself up *%$# creek without a paddle.

For the first time in my life, I had nothing: no answers, no brilliant responses or eloquent explanations. I didn’t know up from down, left from right, nor here nor there. I sat on my couch and cried. I cried for a friend I’ll never see again; I cried for fear of my life’s ambiguity; I cried for finally closing a chapter in my life’s longest love affair; I cried for realizing I can’t control every aspect of my life nor have everything figured our by 26 and then bawled even harder at the thought of just how much I was loved by the Looney Toons I call family.

Then, as soon as it came, it was gone. I sat in silence on my couch and, when the last tear drop had rolled down my face, I realized I had just weathered a huge life storm and I was going to live. That doesn’t mean things were fixed, hearts weren’t still bruised and my problems had miraculously evaporated; it meant, in spite of them, I knew I would be okay.

And sometimes being okay is just enough to keep you going. I was once told, “Don’t waste a good crisis.” It sounded ridiculous at the time but it occurred to me that it’s in the thick of life’s greatest storms that we really learn how to sail our ships and sometimes we have to be fully broken in order to rebuild even stronger. So if you’re headed for one, in the midst of one, or have just survived a good life crisis, welcome to the gang.

My advice for the future: do what you have to do. Run home, hide under the covers, crawl in a hole when the world seems too big and too scary. But after you cry, scream, throw a fit and get everything out, you better get back out there. As I’ve said before, this life is not about avoiding obstacles, heartaches or unpleasant circumstances; it’s about facing them head on, getting beat up and knocked down but always, no matter what, getting back up.

I fly back to LA tomorrow and while my storm has subsided for now, I gladly welcome the next one that tries to throw me off my course because this girl is ten times stronger than the chick she was a week ago and it’s going to take one hell of a storm to slow me down this time.

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It’s been called the Internet Paradox and it states that the more you use the internet for communication, the less you actually communicate face-to-face or on the phone which then leads to an increased likelihood of depression and loneliness.  And loneliness and depression can lead to all kinds of health hazards, from cardio-vascular disease to insomnia. It may not have a direct, 100% correlation, but it’s enough to raise some eyebrows, turn some heads, and pick some fingers up off of keyboards.

Socializing turns out to be incredibly beneficial for your health. And I’m not talking about sending an IM to a buddy on Facebook or even a text to your mom in Virginia. A (lucky number) thirteen year study conducted by the Harvard School of Public Health found social activity can be as effective as physical fitness at pushing back death’s cold, black fingers – not usually the hand you want to hold.

Seriously? Spend more time with friends and family, live a longer life? Sold. Less time on Facebook equals more time in life? Whoa there. We’re just as addicted as you. (Confession: we often take Facebook breaks at the iatg office.) It’s all about using internet socializing in a better way. So here are some suggestions:

1.    Use social networking to set up social events.
•    Thank you, E-vite. You’ve totally reduced my postal service needs as well as my need to plan an event three weeks in advance. Three days in advance? Plenty.
•    Leave a message on your best friend’s wall or text her to arrange meeting up for coffee after work to vent, rather than writing her an outraged email.

2.    Keep in touch with long distance friends.
We all miss the gals we went to college with and you know that best guy friend is never local, so don’t be afraid to use the internet to keep in touch. BUT make sure to put in a phone call on a regular basis, too. Even if you don’t get them, there’s nothing like getting a phone message from someone you haven’t heard from in awhile.

3.    Convenience isn’t always the best choice.
Yeah, we know it’s easy to open a new window on your computer and type a couple words. Yeah, it’s pretty simple to open up your phone and put a few letters together in a text. But it will mean more to you, and to them, when you make some time to dial a number into that phone of yours (who knew it could be used in such ways?) and chat for a few minutes. Make your friends and family a priority even if you can’t always spend time with them.

It turns out when you make time for your friends; you may be adding time to your life in the long run.  Maybe you should be calling your friends and thanking them for that advantage rather than waiting for them to thank you for the phone call….or at least send a text.

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Moments after our engagement became official, I inquired if Ben had asked my father for my hand in marriage. “You didn’t?” I exclaimed, wide-eyed and concerned when he shook his head slowly. I assumed, given my traditional Italian upbringing, Ben would have adhered to customary etiquette and asked my dad out of respect. Despite the fact that Ben was already an honorary member of our family, I was nervous my dad might be slightly offended.

My fear worsened when, on the phone with my parents, Ben said, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, Mr. Platino. It’s not really my style.” My cringe softened when I heard my dad laugh, but I still felt anxious. Now that Ben was going to be my husband, I worried my father’s expectations of him would exceed our contemporary perception of marriage.

Could my dad ever accept that, unlike him and all the men in our family, Ben’s proposal didn’t mean he would settle into a salaried career just to support me? After all, I didn’t expect that. If Ben suddenly dressed up and told me he was going to find a more suitable job, I would probably give him his ring back just to keep him the way he is.

Our engagement got me thinking about how perception changes the moment roles change. To my parents, Ben is the man that will now take care of me. He will be my “in case of emergency” and I can’t blame my father for looking at him a little differently — a little expectantly.

After my fiancé and I transplanted from upstate New York to Los Angeles without a cent in savings, I got sick. Searching for parental consoling one evening, I got a lecture regarding how neither of us have any health insurance. I could sense horror when I explained it is unlikely Ben will ever have the kind of job that will offer health benefits.

A few days later, Ben received a voicemail from my dad, requesting a return phone call. Nausea swept over my body and I imagined my dad discussing with Ben what it means to be a husband, a man, a provider. My nerves were tense all day and I wanted to call my dad to tell him to leave Ben alone — to have some faith in us as a couple.

When I innocently queried Ben that evening about what my father wanted, he casually looked up from the drawing he was working on. “Oh, he just called to say he loved us and if we ever need anything, he hopes we don’t hesitate to ask,” he replied. Ben squinted at me. “Did you tell him how broke we are?” I just shook my head, trying to hold back the tears.

In bed that night I couldn’t sleep. Even though it was 4 a.m. on the East Coast, I felt compelled to contact my dad. I just texted him a message saying “Thank you” and then settled in to finally feeling at peace.

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I just flew home to L.A. from Minnesota, a living art museum of the arctic freeze that most likely took the dinosaurs out. For the record, it was six degrees when I arrived. Being a girl from Texas, and having lived most of my adult life in La La Land, which respectfully stays between about 72 and 80 year round, it was a fright-fest to be in Minnesota’s simply inhumane treatment to my nose, ears and gloveless fingers.

Worse is the fact that in order to avoid the Snow King’s evil clenches, I would literally run from one indoor facility to another, unapologetically girly. While I tend to have pride in this arena, that was not the case here. And yet, the crazy thing was how unaffected people were around me as though this were normal (which obviously for them, it is). Either way, it was not the welcoming sun, palm trees and glistening ocean that won my heart in Minnesota; it was my big brother.

It’s amazing what we do for the ones we love, the sacrifices we make and the stretching of our sanity we undergo to prove to a person how much they mean to us. My flying in the dead of winter to a state technically colder than the chocolate popsicles in my fridge could not express more my devotion to my brother – because Lord knows I appreciate my daily sundresses, the myriad of flip flop options that await me each morning, and sleeping with my windows open 365 days out of the year.

However, when I’m with my brother, or my family for that matter, I could be in a closet and enjoy myself. In short, he made up for sending me home with frostbit appendages. We had pizza at his favorite joint, a late night binge-fest of Pringles, cookies, ice cream, and Reese’s as we giggled ourselves to sleep watching our favorite show, The Office. He took me to a “planetarium” (a conservatory of every plant life known to man), had coffee at his local hang out, Coffee Bene, grabbed a a delicious bite at Longfellow Grill, walked around a snow covered park, and watched the Oscars at his (gorgeous) best friend’s house – which, for the record, I think the curse of the baby sister is that you will always and forever have crushes on your older brother’s friends, something I’ve come to accept. We saw the Falls, ate breakfast at a quaint little joint and, before I knew it, I was on a plane heading home to sunny California.

Needless to say, my trip was too short and while I have no desire to go back until the break-my-ankle-ice-patches melt, I am ecstatic for my May visit. In the meantime, my brother is taking advantage of my vacant Los Angeles apartment for two weeks in March – something about 80 degree weather, the cloudless, blue sky and the endless Santa Monica beach only a fifteen minute drive away has solidified his spring break plans.

Until his graduation, I’ll have to resort to emails, facebooking and late night phone calls to hold me over until I see him again. I love you, Jonesy!

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