Home for the Holidays

They had been married for just six months. She always wanted to be a June bride, and her dream came true. What she didn't expect was that marrying the man of her dreams would mean moving two states away from her dear parents. She was an only child, and leaving her mom and dad to start her new life with Hal was like adapting to a whole new climate and culture. Life apart from them felt unnatural.

Still, she rallied and made the best of it. Married life was certainly a joy, but when she realized that Christmas was just around the corner, she couldn't abide the thought of spending the holidays away from her mom and dad. Hal was a good-hearted chap, and he knew there was no way he could disappoint his brown-eyed beauty.

They loaded up the car and drove through blustery winds and a few flurries, crossing into Connecticut and finally arriving in Massachusetts. Hal felt smug, knowing that his new father-in-law was going to love the necktie that he picked up for him on his last visit to Brooks Brothers. Joan, though, didn't have words. When she walked through the door of her parent's house and fell into her mother's arms, nothing else mattered. She was home.

First Kiss

Based on a true story...

It was the day before Easter 2006. The boy and the girl had been dating for about a month. They had just spent the whole day together, and the feelings growing between them seemed mutual. He walked her to her door, and --SNAP!-- the girl realized she had locked her keys inside her apartment. She called the landlady, but she wasn't going to be back to the apartment complex for at least an hour.

"That's alright," the boy told the girl. "I'll wait with you 'til she gets here."

"Yea!" the girl thought. "Maybe he'll finally kiss me."

The boy and the girl talked and flirted, and he started to look nervous. He leaned in close and said, "I really like you." Then he kissed the girl. He kissed her good, and she liked it. And she liked him. And she hoped it would be the first of many kisses to come.

And it was.

A Letter from Little Red Riding Hood to the Big Bad Wolf

Dear BBW,

Hi. A memo for your reference:

1.)  I just want you to know that yesterday when you tried to intimidate me on my way to my grandmother's house, that was totally uncool.  Dude, I'm just a little girl.  Get an IQ and stop bothering children.  You dig?

2.)  If you ever try that again, I will totally call 9-1-1 on my cell phone that my grandmother gave me for my birthday and tell the cops on you.  I'm not afraid to tattle.

3.)  My parents work till 5 pm, so I will continue to be walking through the woods to my grandmother's house after school every day for the rest of the school year.  The three little pigs told me that they are sick of your shenanigans, too, and they totally have my back. 

4.)  My grandmother told me that if you ever so much as talk to me again that I should kick you where the sun don't shine.  Hard.  Grandmother is wise.  Did I mention that I know karate?

5.)  Two words:  pepper spray.

  

Don't mess with me. Capiche?

Truly,

Little Red

cc:

Three Little Pigs

Grandmother

Mom and Dad

Fairy Godmother

The Law Firm of Wingem, Stingem, Punchem and Robem

Planetary Philosopher

Johnny knew. He knew deep down that he was different. Not in an outcast sort of way. It was just an intuitive knowing. The way you know if you're a math person or a language person or an art person.

In fourth grade, his science teacher was educating the class about the solar system. He was fascinated with the model mobile hanging from the ceiling of the classroom--particularly with the vastness of the sun. An incurable philosopher at heart, Mrs. Owsly was nearly always finding ways for her students to draw some life-affirming truth from the lessons they learned from science.

That day, she told the class that some people are suns and other people are planets. Suns are people who are always on. Suns shine brightly. Suns are inevitably the center of attention, and usually a solo act. Planets, on the other hand, are more subdued. Planets function in community, working well with others. Planets draw their energy from suns, and don't mind not being the center of attention.

Johnny listened intently, being a bit of a philosopher himself. He waited for the next kind of solar system person to be described, but Mrs. Owsly was done. People are either one or the other...suns or planets. Johnny just smiled and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. Even though his teacher never mentioned it, he knew that he was a moon. He was humble enough to realize that he was not the center of the universe. He was truthful enough to know that he was too different from the rest to be a planet. He knew. He was a moon. He was content to reflect the glory of the sun, while still illuminating the planets around him with the glow of his soul.

Mrs. Owsly didn't have to know that moons were people too.

Powerful

This is a Sunday Scribblings exercise...the topic was powerful.

I was sixteen years old with a fervent heart for God. It seemed the whole world was opening up before me--before my very eyes. The wall came down in Berlin. The Soviet Union was experiencing a new openness and tetering on the brink of a total fall of the communism that my sixth grade history teacher once said would never fall.

The Soviet government invited a Christian high school group I was a part of to come give talks in Russian classrooms about our belief in God. I was young, full of hope and wonder, and I jumped at the chance to take such a trip. It was a life-changing experience for me. A total privilege to connect cross-culturally with such a lovely people. My horizons expanded exponentially. I learned that America is not necessarily the greatest country on the face of the earth, rather one of many great countries. I learned that Russians are proud of their country, too. Oh, and I fell in love...with our Russian interpreter.

It might seem odd to say that those two weeks in Russia were the most powerful time in my life, but it is true. At least, it feels true. I saw God's hand at work in amazing ways. I felt used by Him. I was connecting with people in meaningful ways. I was connecting with a boy in a powerful way. For those two weeks, it felt like all was right with the world. It was a powerful season of life.

As with all seasons, they turn. Leaves change to brilliant hues of orange, yellow and red, but inevitably, they turn a crispy-crunchy brown and then they fall to ground like a million puzzle pieces. I had to say good-bye to the Russian interpretter, get on a plane and fly home.

So much changed in the next year or two of my life. I longsufferingly suffered over how much I missed the Russian interpretter--I didn't have an appetite and I was depressed. We exchanged letters and even saw each other again, but the romance I hoped for never materialized. My parents started to have serious marital problems. A month before I graduated from high school, they separated and they later divorced. Oh, and I mustn't fail to mention the question that shook me to the core. One day during my senior year in English class, a thought popped into my mind: How do you know that what you believe is true? How do you know that the God you so fervently believe in even exists? I tried with all my might to ignore the question, but it would not and could not go away. I have since studied the subject and come to a place of peace with the questions. But if I'm honest with myself, I still wrestle with them from time to time.

Life is not one big happy ending. My stepdad died of cancer. My Dad has cancer. Why does God allow these things? Why, when I have been faithful to pursue the career that God has called me to, is it so so hard to get work as an actor? I find myself another 16 (okay, 17) years down the road of life, and I don't feel the same power that I did as a 16 year old. The world feels so much bigger. Life feels so much shorter. The road feels so much harder. God feels more distant.

I still believe in Him. I still believe He is good. But I don't feel very powerful. And maybe that is the point. Maybe that is why Jesus said, "My power is made perfect in weakness." Maybe God will meet me in this place of powerlessness, and infuse this empty vessel with His Light. Please, Lord! I could really use it right now.

Note:
I hope I don't sound like an ungrateful whiner. He has given so many wonderful blessings, including a great family and the husband I have dreamed of having for so long. I definitely don't mean to discount those wonderful blessings. This was just a cathartic introspective creative writing piece.

Pour Yourself a Cup of Ambition

Attitude
Motion
Be yourself
Intention
Talk!
Interest
Of course you can!
Notice

Attempting to pour myself a cup this morning. Happy Monday and a good week to all!

A Monologue for a Southern Manicurist

I had so much fun playing this character in The Chronicles of Hernia that I want to keep working on material for her, so I thought I'd write her a monologue.

Hey sweetie. You want 'em round or square? Square? Good choice. Edith Mae was in here earlier today, and bless her heart, she insists on rounded nails. Square are so much more attractive. Mmm. Hmm.

So, how's Ray? (waits for response.) He did? What a sweetheart! You know, not every man takes care of his woman that way. Just last week, Cindy, bless her heart, told me that she caught her man cheatin'. Well, of course, I told her I'd keep in it the strictest confidence. I'm just telling you because I know you're discreet.

I told Jim Bob that if he ever even thinks about cheatin' on me that I will drop kick him so far, he won't know what city he's in when he lands on his boney bottom. Of course, Jim Bob would never cheat. I don't think. I mean there was that one time I found Emma Lou's majorette boots under our bed, but Jim Bob swore up and down that she left them at the stadium after the game and he was just holdin' onto them until he saw her next. I trusted him because what's a marriage without trust, right? That's why I didn't even bat an eye when I found lipstick on the collar of his shirt last Saturday when he came home after the Kiwanis club potluck. He said that Odelle Bisby got a little cheeky during the meet 'n' greet, so I didn't press him on it further. Bless her heart, old Odelle's vision is so bad, she probably thought Jim Bob was her late husband. Then there was that time two Christmases ago when he came home smellin' like Chanel Number 5. He told me I shouldn't ask questions around Christmastime, that he just got attacked by the perfume ladies at the mall. Well, who am I to ask a gift-horse questions when 'tis the season and all. Right? Bless his heart, his sniffer don't work too good because I got a bottle of Charlie in my stocking, but it's the thought that counts right? Mmm. Hmm.

What color sweetie? Plum? Nice choice. Yesterday Louise was in and she chose the most awful shade of fuchsia. I wanted to tell her that no one has chosen that shade since 1986, but she was so enthusiastic about her choice, bless her heart, that there was no stopping that train wreck. With each nail that I painted, the more she "oo"ed and "aah"ed. I was cringing on the inside, but my mama told me that if you can't say somethin' nice, take a bit of good advice and don't say anything at all. So I just smiled and pretended that I was painting Madonna's nails for her "Holiday" video. What else could I do? Class is an important character trait to possess, and I like to think that I got it.

Iggy and Jet

In an effort to get my creative juices flowing, I decided to write a short story for today's post:

My name is Iggy. Stop laughing. I mean it. My parents thought it would be a good idea to give their baby girl a good Catholic grown-up name. So Mary Ignatius is on my birth certificate. I guess that after my mother's post partum endorphins wore off, she realized what she had done and tried with all her might to make a cute baby girl name out of it. So Iggy I am.

Some of the great gems I heard growing up were "Look! It's Icky Iggy" or "Ha-ha! Iggy is married to Ziggy!" Because we all no that nothing is as insulting as hearing that you are married to an adorable comic strip character.

But, whatev. I grew up and built some good character along the way, and now I've grown into my name and have even come to embrace it. I am, after all, the only Iggy I've ever known. And when people shorten it to "Ig" as a term of endearment, I nearly pee myself with glee. "Ig" is just plain cute.

You may be wondering what a girl named Iggy does for a living. I work at Macy's behind the MAC counter. Yep, I'm one of the freaks you see wearing all black with black hair and a fuschia streak in it. I love black eyeliner. And don't even get me started on the wonders of black nail polish.

I live with my husband, Jet. Bless his heart--his parents thought it might be fun to name him after their favorite space-age cartoon family. Jetson Riker are his first and middle names. (They were Trekkies, too.) Lucky for him, "Jet" is an incredibly cool knickname, and it is just as masculine as he is.

Jet and I met two Halloweens ago. He was bound and determined to win his office costume party. He thought it would be funny to go as a hangover. No, you did not misunderstand me. He wanted to dress up as a hangover for Halloween. One of his co-workers told him that if he really wanted to wow everyone, he should get his makeup professionally done. So in he walks and asks me to make him look like a hangover. We made small talk as I gave him dark circles under his eyes. We laughed as I drew a zig-zag down his forhead to represent his splitting headache. But things really started to heat up when I was attaching prosthetic pieces of throw-up to his face with spirit gum: He told me I had nice hands.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!

I do not have nice hands. They are the feature I have always loathed the most about myself. I can't grow my nails out worth a darn. My fingers are chubby. The only thing they have going for them is MAC's "Nocturnelle" Nail Lacquer. I told him that I didn't care much for my fingers. But he insisted that they were the cutest he'd ever seen and that they had a gentle touch. All he had to do at that point was ask me if I wanted to be the mother of his children, and I would have said "YES!".

Thankfully, he just slipped me his card with a generous tip, and went on his way. "Jetson Riker Jones, CPA". An accountant? How could an accountant have been that charming? I decided to take a risk and call him. We went out that weekend and we've been together ever since. We're totally wrong for each other--a real mismatch by the world's standards. No one gets it but us. But we're happy. Really happy.

We're expecting our first baby in May. A little girl. We're naming her Leia Ruth. A little bit sci-fi and a little bit Catholic. I think our parents will be proud.