unconventional sentiments

Today is my mom's birthday. And if you've ever for one second wondered "where I get it," or how I've come to be how and who I am - and I'm sure you have at least once - well, she is the answer to that question. See? 

Recently I was having a conversation with my family about families. I don't really remember what we said to prompt this discussion, but I do remember clearly when my mom said to us, in all complete sincere seriousness, "Really think about it though. Wouldn't you be sad if you'd had to grow up in a family where no one ever called you an idiot?"

You know what the sick thing is?
I think I genuinely would.

Even though we look good doing it, sometimes our little family can be a real hot mess. [I can say that because I'm part of it.] But we work. We make it. We're pretty great a lot of the time actually, and we're real fun, nobody would tell you otherwise. We keep us on our toes, that's for certain. And even though our terms of endearment are slightly less... conventional, if you will, at the end of the day we know that idiot is practically a pet name. I don't even like you is an affirmation of love. Miming the motion of a quick punch [one of Mom's trademark moves when I do or say something especially idiotic, and to be fair usually I'm making fun of her in some way/shape/form] gives me the same fuzzy feeling as a nice long hug. Don't worry though, you sensitive little souls, we do the other stuff too, the conventional love stuff. It's just not as funny to write about.

So here's to Mommie dearest, my mom, on this, the day of your birth. For always knowing the answers, for teaching me all of my not at all embarrassing dance moves, for passing on a healthy love for karaoke [and the spotlight in general, let's be honest], for always putting up with me when I was [past tense, obviously] awful, for being my perpetual audience, for being so kind as to provide me with just enough dysfunction to make me funny, and for teaching me everything I know, essentially. For all these things and so many more, I say here's to you.

The glue that holds us together even on days when we're not feeling particularly sticky. 
The constant answer to the ongoing question of why, when it comes to me anyway.
My funny, fashionable, groovy Mom.

Oh, and since I'm not there with you this weekend - and I know I've earned at least one mimed punch for this post - you'll have to give it to one of the other idiots in lieu of me. Sorry I'm not sorry, you guys.

game-changers

I feel like Tuesdays are usually not great days. I don't know what it is, but mine tend to have people in them who like to yell. At me, mostly. Or extended trips to unpleasant places for work, like the county jail or the social security office. But it's not just Tuesdays. Sometimes it's Mondays. Or Fridays even, heaven forbid, that are unpleasant or yucky in some way. I don't love it when that happens. Call me crazy, but I am the kind of person who likes to have good days. The kinds where people don't yell at me and stuff.

There are a couple of things - tricks of the trade, if you will, if the trade is having bad days I guess - that can help on these days. I like to call these things game-changers. Often when I am having a bad day and something delightful happens, I will exclaim the word triumphantly [likely out loud and probably in public because talking to myself is apparently a thing I do now] as if to solidify that the game has, in fact, been changed. I'd say most of the time these things are out of my control, unexpected, like a surprise. But there are a few things that, if I am having a crap day, I know are within my power to call into the game.

Those things are, to list a few:

A diet root beer. Preferably in a bottle. Works every time.

Any kind of appointment involving my hair/nails.

Zumba, which for me falls on Tuesday, which is lucky because Tuesday is the pits.

The best kind of game-changer, though, is the kind you're not expecting. The kind where the day just kind of sucks and then something great happens out of the blue and, yknow, changes the game and stuff.

POR EJEMPLO:
Realizing I parked in a 2 hour parking spot 4 hours after I parked there and not getting a ticket about it.
A really good parking spot at work. Parking in general tends to ruin my life, if you couldn't tell.
Getting to the left turn at Colfax & Colorado right when the arrow turns green.
Someone Instagramming a picture of me where I look really great.
Getting something really good in the mail, like a book I forgot I ordered on Amazon, a $5 bill from Gram, or a photograph of a young Art Bamford.
Good news, in general, tends to fall into this category.
Finding out my client's attorney is as attractive in person as he sounds on the phone.

Any kind of compliment where the gist is that I look really great.

One particular scenario stands out in my mind as the mother of all game-changers, and that is the tale of the time the firemen came to my rescue. Now gather round, and I will tell you of this magical day:

One morning not long ago, I was in a hurry. I got to work a few minutes later than I should have, I was rushed and hustling to get inside to deal with my day. The parking lot at my old office [we moved last week], you should know, was a complete disaster - and on this particular day I parked on the outskirts. Which means my car was blocking about 6 other cars in. Which means I would probably have to move my car in roughly 8.5 minutes when someone needed out. Business as usual, really. My hands were full of junk, so I locked my car from the inside, shut the door, and turned to walk into the building, only to be filled immediately with a sense of dreadful dread: I had locked my keys in my car.

I had to be in a meeting in 18 minutes. I was blocking enough people in that the chances were pretty good I'd need to move my car in the very near future in order to let someone out to do their job. I didn't even have the option to get my spare key from my house because my house key was, yknow, locked in my car. I ran inside and started frantically asking a bunch of problem-solving case managers what I should do. It was suggested to me that I walk over to the fire station, "bat my eyes a little" and see if they wouldn't help me. Having been waiting the entire year of my employment for an excuse to go to the fire station, which just so happened to be across the street, my stomach did a little somersault and I decided it was now or never. Out of time and options, I would have to go to the firemen for help.

So, I did. A nice looking gentleman standing outside told me to go wait by my car and they would be right over. And sure enough, moments later, over the horizon, like a beacon in the night - came not one, not two, not three, but FOUR firemen. Wielding all the necessary implements to avert my crisis. Four strapping young men coming to my rescue. Not usually one to play the damsel in distress card, in that moment as they approached, I decided to forget all about what I usually do, and I played it like. a. boss.

And as they approached - and my female coworkers, as though sensing the firemen's proximity to them, gathered to watch from the window - the panic and dismay I had been feeling was seamlessly replaced by peace and joy, and I exclaimed softly, triumphantly: game-changer!

No I didn't. I was way too busy swooning and batting my lashes and wishing I'd worn something cuter that day to say any actual words, thank goodness. But it would be a way better way to end this story if I had, right? Maybe next time. I do so wholeheartedly pray there is a next time.

fireworks keep falling on my head

[After a lovely, relaxing, sun-filled five days at the lake, I am showered, wearing legitimate clothing, and heading home. I can tell I've had enough lake time for now because the Kansas City airport is rocking a little and I'm pretty sure that's not real. Anyway I sat down after being harassed at airport security about the threatening electric toothbrush I was packing [see what I did there?] and realized it's been kind of a long while since I actually wrote anything. My b. I promise I'll post something new and exciting this week - it's just that with all the jet-setting, Red Rocks attending and Bachelorette watching, I suppose I've just been far too busy being glamorous to blog.

But here's a little something - revised for your enjoyment from July 4, 2011]

I love fireworks. The fourth of July is far from my favorite holiday [though it is the birthday of my sweet Nana B, and that I love], but a good fireworks show is easily one of my favorite things. I don't honestly have an explanation for why I love them so much, why there is so much nostalgia attached to these particular crackles of colored light. It's just one of those things, I guess. It just is.

I am something of a fireworks snob, admittedly, as I grew up watching fireworks the only way I think fireworks should ever be watched - from right smack in the middle of a lake. While I can appreciate a good show on dry land, it's nothing compared to the combined sensory experience of the boat rocking gently back and forth, water lapping against the sides, the Apollo 13 soundtrack playing on the stereo [trust me on that one], and the occasional obnoxious yet somehow endearing cheers of lake people. I remember I used to feel like it was a secret we had, like something not everyone could possibly know. I've watched fireworks from rooftop patios with perfect views, sitting on the tops of cars, with people I love. But every time, no matter how good, I can't help but think that when fireworks are done right, as you lie in the dark stillness, you should be just a little worried about debris hitting you in the face. That's how you can tell you're close enough; when fireworks keep falling on your head.

I remember sitting with my little nieces and nephews in my lap as they marveled at the "firecracks." Each time, I found myself wiping tears from my eyes as wonder explodes from their little mouths - because I can remember just as vividly watching the fireworks when I was that little, my mouth gaping in equal parts excitement and terror, mesmerized by the colors taking shape above me. Something about fireworks, to this day, makes me feel dreamy. I remember watching, thinking about what my life might be like, someday. I remember being a boy-crazy teenager and thinking about the romance that was sure to come, of the hands I would someday hold under that same glittery sky. I remember distinctly feeling inexplicable peace as I watched the firecracks, surrounded comfortably by my people, imagining how I would bring my someday people there, someday - how I would let them in on the secret, and take them to the place where the fireworks fall on your face.

And now here we are: someday is here with still more someday to come. Fireworks create a rare space in time where I can love and live the present and feel hope and excitement for someday all at once. Even still, after years and years of hearing the same noises and watching the same finales, I watch [my mouth gaping] in equal parts wonder at the loveliness of today and dreamy dreams of romance & somedays to come.

And also an ever-so-slight underlying fear that a firework might hit me in the face.

the tyranny of FOMO

I'm no good at bedtimes. I stay up too late and wake up just enough after when I should that I'll not be super late but also I definitely won't be on time. It's an annoying thing about me. And I get all, oh, it's fine, I'm a night owl! But really? My body likes sleep. Normal amounts of it even. If I stay up late doing something awesome, I can handle the consequences of that. But most of the time in retrospect I didn't do much of anything and I'm tired all the next day and it's really for no reason at all. It's just that when it comes to the end of a day, I panic. I think, I must write one more paragraph. Hang out for one more hour. Watch one more episode. Read one more chapter. Paint one more canvas. Write one more card. Clean my room, paint my nails, do some yoga, make a to-do list, book a flight, etc/so on/so forth until it's 1 AM, I have a full day ahead of me, and I'm not going to get nearly enough sleep to appease my poor, weary body. 

A while back this was defined for me clearly when I was with some friends and I made a comment about how I should leave now before I ended up staying for another 2 hours, as I am wont to do. One of the girls said knowingly, "Ahh yes. FOMO." At first I thought she was swearing at me, which was confusing, but then she explained: FOMO stands for Fear Of Missing Out.

I thought, No. Yes.
I don't have that. I absolutely do.
I'm just social and stuff. True, but also not.
It's fine. It for sure isn't.

FOMO is debilitating. And I'm not being dramatic for once, I think it's a genuinely terrible affliction to be afflicted with. It makes everything harder. Watch: What should I do on Friday? turns into What if I go dancing but I miss out on karaoke? and then What if I choose karaoke but then dancing ends up being way more fun? or better yet Should I go home for a weekend? becaaaaaaaause If I do, will I miss something in Denver? OR If I don't, will I miss something at home? horror of horrors What if the best thing ever to ever happen happens while I'm not present? and the grande finale WHAT IF I NEVER RECOVER FROM MISSING THIS ONE MOMENT/EVENT/TRIP/EVENING AT THE TAVERN? It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.

I'm going to be out of town essentially all but one weekend in July, and I was fine with that until I went through a whole slew of Facebook invites and realized I'll be missing kind of a lot of stuff. Per usual, panic ensued. See, I was the kid who never missed school if I was sick because I didn't want to miss being line leader or lunch table conversation or having gym class with the boy I had a crush on. I was the girl who didn't study abroad in college because I didn't want to miss beach weekends and Kappa parties. And while I like to think I'm getting more mature as I age, apparently this is a thing I'm still doing. I have somehow talked myself into believing that I need to be everywhere all the time or I won't be ok. That's ridiculous. Any way you slice it, I'm going to miss things. And what I have to learn now, at the ripe old age of 27, is that it's fine. I'm fine. My relationships are strong enough to survive me missing a party or two. And probably sometimes I'm going to decide to do one thing, then have some regret and wish I'd done the other. I'm going to feel left out every now and again. Especially if I'm not in the Party Pics, but whatever, that's fine too.

The real yucky part of this, for me, is acknowledging that I'm afraid. I'm social and extroverted, yeah. I like to keep busy, sure. But more than that, I am deeply and significantly fearful of missing out - to a degree that interferes with my actual functioning [in that I panic on the daily and sleep far less than I maybe should]. So far, though, living like this hasn't done anything but make me tired, and I'm over feeling panicky every time I have to make a decision. I realized today that liberating myself from the tyranny of FOMO may be as simple as learning to pay attention to what I actually want to be doing in a given moment instead of what I think I shouldn't miss. That's the trick of it. Oh, and I may or may not need to ask my new roommates to enforce my bedtime on school nights. I'm sure that won't be a weird conversation.

So I'm going to miss things. Lots of things, probably. And I'm going to occasionally have to choose sleep and self-care over socializing, which will be a hard thing for me. And if sometimes I want to stay up late and paint my nails or see a superhero movie for half price or read a good book, I can do that too. I'm a grown up and it's my call. And because I'm me, I'll probably still hang out an hour too long or stay up all night painting or read a chapter too many from time to time. But it won't be because I'm afraid not to. 

we're lake people

I don't like to stereotype, but I think you can pretty well categorize people by the kinds of vacations they go on. There are people who ski, who spend their spring breaks in Breckenridge and their Christmas bonuses on goggles and poles. There are people who spend long weekends at resorts in Mexico, who buy sarongs and wide brimmed hats and have jewels on their sandals. There are people who just want to park their mobile homes in your driveway for a few days on their way to Niagara falls. I hear there are even people who just like roadtrips, belting out Springsteen as they blaze down the highway, nothing but open road ahead of them. There are people who camp, hike, backpack and those people, well, they're tougher than me. People do all kinds of different things for pleasure. And sometimes we branch out, yknow, to broaden our horizons and whatnot, but for the most part people seem to gravitate back toward their own vacation kind. I am of an interesting breed myself, always have been and always will be --

I am lake people.

Lake people are a lovely kind of people to be, I think, and vary quite greatly in terms of their non-lake living. Some of us actually live on lakes, sure, others go for weekends, others once a summer, etc. We come from all different walks and places and lifestyles [mostly midwestern], but at the lake, we are the same. And while this does not go for all lake people, people who go to lakes are probably pretty average on weekdays. They probably go to a job and are productive members of society, most days, but when it's time to go to the lake? Things shift in a big, delightful, borderline trashy way. We transform. We become lake people.

Maybe you wear a suit every day to work, but the ones who are lake people can also wear a swimsuit and nothing but for a straight week and not flinch. No shoes, no shirt, sorry, that's a dealbreaker. Drinking during the day at home may be unheard of, but at the lake? If you're awake, I'd say it's fair game. Children get to be wilder and adults let looser and teenagers dream of the day they'll be allowed to go to party coves and take Sea-Doo rides with the boys from the boat next dock who they also plan on marrying, one day. Lake people don't worry about showering - on a day we're feeling particularly fancy we might bring some soap down to the dock. Lake people don't get upset when they accidentally have a cocktail too many in the afternoon and end up using the dog's brush on their hair. Lake people eat dinner at 10pm and still wake up early to ski before the rookies come out. Lake people have not a care in the world aside from when do the fireworks start and do you think we have enough bratwurst?

As you know I am a girl of many families, but one thing we all share is a common acceptance that we are lake people. It's something I get from both sides, and thank goodness for it. Since I live farther than is drivable to any of the lakes we frequent, I don't get to go as much, but I am always thankful for the ease with which I slink back into my easy breezy lake self. Give me a speed boat, a cooler full of cocktails, some jorts, and a bottle of sunscreen and I'll be happy for days. Add some smutty mags and a couple whips around the lake on a tube and I'll be downright giddy. Maybe I'll lake bathe [i.e. suds up/rinse off in the lake] once. Maybe I won't. It's fine. We're lake people. We can handle getting a little filmy for a few days.

I was lake people all weekend, in fact, but now I am back; wearing a dress and washing my hair, putting on makeup and being professional. But it doesn't mean I won't morph right back into the same kinda trashy, jorts-wearing, dog-brush-using, day-drinking, tubing-even-though-it-hurts-me, lake-loving fool when I get in sight of the water again. Give me a good fireworks show, maybe some sparklers, and color me delighted. We're lake people. We don't need much more than that.

[If you're curious about finding lake people outside of lakes, there are ways. They can often be spotted singing karaoke [this, in my experience, is a big tell], sitting in the Rockpile at Rockies games, purchasing tank tops at Walmart, hanging out in dive bars, wearing Corona t-shirts, talking about wakeboarding, and frequenting the frozen drink and encased meat sections of the grocery store.]

stupid little bird

My clients are known for having some interesting requests. And a couple days ago, I kid you not, I got a voicemail that said this: Hey Megan, I found this baby bird that must've fallen out of its nest - do you think you could look online for me at places we could take it? Thanks! See you tomorrow! Now, the thing of it is, I have approximately ten trillion things to do with this guy. We need to go to the Social Security office. We need to find him a place to live. We need to go to lots of meetings and appointments AND he lost his bus pass so I will have to cart him around myself until he gets a new one. That's a lot of stuff. So ask me if I really care to spend time looking online for bird sanctuaries. The answer is no. No I do not.

So sure enough, at our scheduled meeting time, in walks my client carrying a giant cardboard box.

Hey guy, I say. You've got a bird in that box, don't you? Affirmative.

Now, I don't really like birds. I like putting birds on things, but I don't so much want anything to do with an actual bird.  So mostly to appease him - because he is undeniably sweet and clearly very concerned with the health and safety of this little pipsqueak - I went up to my office and googled "found a baby bird Denver." Much to my surprise, through a series of weird phone calls (hard to hear, what with all the birds in the background), I found myself jotting down directions to the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center of Denver. That's a thing. And because my sweet client wasn't going to let go of that damn bird until I took him there, there is where we went. To Wild Bird Rehab. Which, to recap, is a real thing that exists.

As I drove, the little nugget sat in my client's palm, squawking and being generally bird-like, and I have to admit to you that I was feeling a little annoyed. This was adding more than an hour to an already long and generally unpleasant expedition to Social Security. All for a stupid little bird.

We arrived at the bird place and the bird people, rushing it to an incubator, applauded my client for keeping the little dude alive for those few days. He'd saved the little bird's life. It was a little adorable, how pleased he was, how relieved that the bird would get the care it needed, how he explained so earnestly that if you just make this little noise he'll open his mouth to eat - and since I'm not some kind of heartless fiend, I did begin to soften a little to the whole situation. Even Wild Bird Rehab. My client asked as we walked out - something of an afterthought - what kind of a bird was it that he'd saved? A sparrow, she said.

Sometimes the world is rough. Sometimes people look at us, at me probably, and say all of this trouble for stupid little you. When we've got so much more important things to worry about. But when I heard that woman's voice say that it was a sparrow he'd saved, my breath caught a little because an old hymn rang through me, clear as the squawk of that little bird in my client's palm:

He laid out a path for me that I may see - 
I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free
for His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me


Even on that stupid little bird. You don't have to sing because you're happy, I don't know if you are. But at the very least (which if you ask me is maybe the very most) you can sing because you're free. I know you are that.

the haps and the goings on

So, I've been relatively inconsistent in the writing realm. That's on me. This is for multiple reasons, but mostly, I'm just very busy and important these days. It takes up a lot of my time. You understand.

Today, in a matter of moments, in fact, I am driving to Wichita for what I have affectionately dubbed my annual introversion binge. You see, I am an extrovert of the highest order. In ways that are not always adaptive, I am a people person. As such, being alone, spending time by myself? So not my jam. But once a year, about this time, I get the itch to spend a glorious 7-8 hours all by my lonesome in my little red Saturn. And during those 7-8 hours - completely uncharacteristic to my people personhood - I don't want anything to do with any person other than the cast of Rogers and Hammerstein's 1963 version of the musical Cinderella starring Lesley Ann Warren, which I will sing in it's entirety, probably more than once. Annual Introversion Binge, we meet again. Here goes nothing. And you don't need to worry about me. I have mix cd's, so it's fine.

Another reason I will be relatively preoccupied in coming weeks is because I am moving. Yes, tis true, the puggle will be my roomie no longer as Kels is moving to San Fran for love and bliss and all that. I'm not mad about it, there's not really any room for that, but I am a little frantic in terms of what to do now. I have some options, which is nice, but the future is yet uncertain. Oh, there's nothing quite like this seemingly unending stage of transitional twenties. Oh well. Que sera, sera, and all that.

Here is something nice that has come of the past few days, however. In putting the word out about my move to anyone who will listen [I'd say strangers excluded but I don't like to lie], I have been met with many suggestions of what I should do. I have been offered basements [the good kind], other basements [the unfinished, dead-bodies probably buried there kind], the back-end of a Forerunner, couches, more basements, summer sublets, old people's basements, rooms in South Carolina, pallets on the floors of friend's bedrooms, squatting in empty neighbors' houses, et cetera and so on and so forth. What struck me though, with all offers both serious and not-so, is the number of people who cared and responded. To crazy me. Empathy [I'm choosing to not call it pity] dripping from their voices, telling me these words:
At the very least we have an option. We'll figure it out, ok?

Moving sucks. Scouring Craigslist on the daily for a house that isn't terrible super sucks. Life, sometimes, is sucky. Sometimes it's just nice to know that in the face of all the suck, I will be met with countless people who will tell me it's ok. I'm not alone. And that's something, yknow?

OH, I almost forgot! In addition to walking for Victory in the Valley, and watching my sweet little niecey pie Emily graduate from high school this weekend (!!!!), I am also travelling to Kansas by car in order that I might procure this little guy: a wicker lion which has been lovingly bequeathed to me by my sweet little Nana pie. So wherever I end up in the next month, I know one thing for absolute certain: I will have a wicker lion with marble eyes in tow. And that is also something.

have no plans

If you're looking to have a spectacular weekend, here is my advice to you: have no plans.


Last Saturday, for the first time in quite some time, I had no plans. Not a one. So we set off that morning into the wild blue yonder to do whatever we felt like. We never made any plans in any kind of future thinking fashion, and for something like 14 straight hours, we did not stop having a great time even once. We just did what we pleased when we pleased. At one point we decided we should go eat falafel literally because I saw some granola bites in Walgreens that I thought and commented looked like falafel. Things just happened like that, all day, one after another. We ended up crashing a crawfish boil with a live bluegrass band. We stumbled upon it on our way to get a sno cone margarita suggested to us by one of the ladies whose yard sale we'd attended that morning. Everything about all of it was completely ideal.

I'm not much of a planner to begin with, that's a fact. But this was different - because at no point while we were doing this day was I concerned with anything going on in any other place than the one I was in. I wasn't trying to figure out how to meet up with 26 people or be anywhere at any certain time and I just got to live delightfully moment to moment in a way I'm not used to doing. In a way, I might add, that I will be doing at least monthly from this point on.

All because, for once in my busy little life,
I simply had no plans.

 I highly recommend it.

help isn't always professional

I recently learned something important about working with people. You see, I'm a counselor by education, a case manager by day, and a people person by birth, so I do a lot of people-work. I'm trained to do all sorts of therapeutic interventions. I know how to de-escalate someone who's agitated and I can make 50 minutes of therapy fly right on by. I can teach coping skills and strategies for prevention of relapse. I know these things, and there's always more to learn - and I believe they work or I wouldn't do what I do. I believe the people I work with need these things. Honestly, I believe a lot of the time I need these things.

I believe in therapy, in medication, in the power and effectiveness of mental health treatment. But I also believe we have to be open to seeing what people really need in a given moment - and that it's not always those things. The other day I watched anxiety reduce, spirits lift, and mood shift radically in about 4 minutes and 37 seconds and I didn't do a dang thing to make it happen. Because on that particular day, she didn't need a professional intervention. She needed to sing some Whitney Houston.

People need help that is professional, sometimes. And sometimes people need help that isn't. Sometimes they just need a minute to do something that makes them happy. Sometimes people just need people who will give them space to be people. I want to keep learning how to better help people professionally. But no matter how many letters end up after my name, I hope I will never lose sight of the therapeutic power of basking in the sunlight, driving with the windows down, and singing your favorite Whitney Houston song at the top of your lungs.

You may not work with people, but at the very least, you are people, so listen up. Do something that makes you happy. Take the space you need and feel free in it. Relieve your anxiety, lift your spirits, shift your mood, and never underestimate the power of the things that bring you joy. Watch The Bachelor, drink a diet root beer, listen to metal/country/90's R&B, pay a visit to a swingset. I don't care if it seems silly or inconsequential. It's therapeutic.

Take it from me. I'm a professional.

here is something nice

I love that people all say things differently. I love that we could see the exact same thing and then we'd say totally different words about it. Today my friend Kim gchatted me and she said the best thing, and with her permission I am guesting her words on here [in italics.] She was in a coffee shop, she said, sitting near two little brothers. She said they were about 11 and 14. They arent saying anything, she told me, just eating next to each other. And the older one was helping the younger one get all his things, she went on, and I just am emotion queen watching. [We love emotions, me & Kim.]

This is my favorite part, what she said next:
They are so awkward but they love each other. I am pretty sure about it.

I loved hearing about it. But then I've always had something of a penchant for the awkward types, so no surprise there. She said, when we were talking about why we loved it so, I was thinking sometimes I am shocked when people serve for others. Mmmmmmhmmm, I said. It's refreshing when it's a way of life for 11 and 14 year old strangers. Can I get an amen?

I tend to think love needs to look a certain way. Kim didn't see those boys say two words to each other, and she saw the love in their exchange regardless. Because the thing is, loving another person looks so many ways. The best kind of ways, I think, are just the ones that leave other people pretty sure about it.

I think that may be the trick, in the end. To try and do life so people will say of us:
They are so [whatever way you are] but they love each other. I am pretty sure about it.

true confessions of a person who recently watched an entire TV series in a very short period of time

Disclaimer: First of all, it's about to get all kinds of crazy exaggeratory up in here. You've been warned. Secondly, if you've never seen the show Friday Night Lights, you probably aren't going to care about any of this or think it's that funny. Sorry to be writing for such a niche market today, but I guess that's just life in the big city, baby.

Ya'll, over the last few months I accomplished something important.

I watched the hit TV series Friday Night Lights - all 5 seasons of it - in it's entirety.

Am I embarrassed to have watched that many hours of TV in such a short period of time? I wasn't until I conversationally wrote that question to myself and now I kind of am, but we're already here so I'll push through it. I fell pretty instantly in love with everything about that stupid show. By the end of Season 5, I was so attached to everyone and everything that I literally had to stand up to watch the final play of the STATE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME YA'LL, I was so nervous! I can't help it. I am one with the fabricated town of Dillon, Texas and every made up character in it. There are two particular people I will miss the very most.

  

First, Coach's wife. Hot diggity. Talk about a sassy lady.

The reasons I love her include but are not limited to:

She wears cowboy boots with every outfit she ever wears.
She's married to Coach Eric Taylor, the hott with two t's molder of men himself.
When a-hole football coaches ask her to call heads, she calls tails.
She has bombshell hair, like, all the time.

She is content [happy, even!] with her life even though Julie Taylor is her daughter (woof) and Gracie Belle has the most giant forehead I've ever seen on a human child in my life up to this point. Yes, everyone, I'm talking about it. Don't pretend like you didn't notice.

Here's the thing about Tami T: she always knows the right thing to do. She's brilliant and everyone knows it because every person on that whole show goes to her with every single problem in their life whether it makes sense for them to or not. Plus, homegirl sticks to her guns. She is strong and steady and doesn't falter even when she's making understandable compromises for the betterment of her marriage or town or children's lives or whatever. If I don't know how to handle myself in a given situation, I will ask myself one question: what would Tami Taylor do? And then I make great choices. Sassy, strong, wise, bombshelly choices.

Real talk: when I grow up, I want to be just like Tami Taylor. It's just that simple. I'd do anything she told me to, except I feel like she might tell me to stay away from Tim Riggins. In which case, Tami, I'm sorry to let you down... but I mean... have you seen Tim Riggins? The only thing that could possibly outweigh my goal to be just like Tami Taylor is my life dream to be all up on Tim Riggins. [Don't worry ya'll - he's 31 in real life so it's not weird.]

Tim Riggins? He's like the heart-of-gold-guy-with-a-rough-past-who-just-needs-a-good-woman-to-love-him-through-it poster boy. Pick me, Riggs. I will love you through it.

I can't say much more about it without getting embarrassed and also upset because Tim Riggins is not a real life person [although on a bad day I'm moderately convinced Taylor Kitsch is actually a Canadian Tim Riggins and if we happened to run into each other near his current home in Austin, Texas we would fall instantly in love.] The real test is this: I can think of no scenario in life where I would ever wish it upon myself to be Lyla Garrity, Tyra Collette, Becky Sproles, or Julie Taylor. Except for the scenarios in which they are being seduced/befriended/loved/protected from tornadoes [are you kidding me with that by the way? be still my beating heart.] by Tim Riggins. For that I'd happily trade lives with any one of those crazy fools. And that, I think, is true love. Right?

I may have slipped into a mild depressive state for a minute there when I finished watching, I have to admit it. Anyway I think it's what Riggs would've wanted. The hurt of the loss makes me feel like slamming my car into a mailbox on purpose, Julie Taylor style, or drinking a million beers like Lyla did when she fell on hard times, or brooding silently on my open field of Texas land like #33 himself. But I will be strong, Tami Taylor style, and I will move on with my life. Because I've lived long enough in this Texan fairyland, and in the words of Tami herself, it's my turn now. It's my turn, ya'll. 

birthday hangover

I know you've all been confused and wondering what's been missing from your lives over the past week - and I will tell you. It was me. It's just that, you see, it was my birthday week. So I've been busy being showered with love and attention and extravagant gifts and doing fanciful activities all week long. Far too busy to write anything or even remember I have a blog. Or a job. Or any other role aside from birthday-haver. You understand.

I love birthdays. We know this. And my birthday week was, for all intents and purposes, stellar. Here are some items I'd like to highlight as being especially lovely on what was a great segue into *GASP* my late twenties.

this picture is my new favorite thing.

I drank a hot toddy, ate free banana pudding and watched open mic comedy. I saw Thoroughly Modern Millie on a big screen - wearing long pearls - and we danced the (tap-tap-tap)Tapioca in the aisles after. This in particular was the kind of wondrous activity I wouldn't have even wished for because I didn't know something so wonderful could exist. I saw a brilliant production of Wicked. I'd seen it before and I love that musical, but this was a level of good where I was choked up during every song - not because it was emotional - but because it was so unbelievably beautiful. I got cute shoes and pictures of tomato plants and cakes and DrawSomething drawings of cakes and birthday cake oreo ice cream [somebody get that outta my house please] and phone calls and texts and words of affirmation out the wazoo. I got my very own karaoke party with so many people I love and I got to dance the Cupid Shuffle and really, what more do I need? Nothing, that's what.

I don't mean to sound braggy, but honestly, I feel a little braggy.

And now in closing, thank you, all of you, for knowing just exactly what would fill me with birthday joy. Thank you for a perfectly lovely week in which you attended happily to my every whim and desire, which apparently includes watching weird musicals from the 60's, laughing at amateur comedians while consuming geriatric treats, and singing Mandy Moore for an audience. And to those of you who know me so well, who know my craziest, ugliest, and most broken parts and who have stuck around to love me, I've said it before and I'll say it again: you are, by far, my most prized gift.

Though I love my birthday more than words can say, I know when it's time to step out of the spotlight and resume normal life. If you need me I'll be here listening to the Oldies but Goodies Pandora station to cope with it all. And so with that, I bid you adieu, birthday week. Hello, late 20's. Let's try to be friends. 

reflections on a holy week

I know I go to the right church because I'm consistently doing things that
1. are awesome and
2. make me wildly uncomfortable

Case in point: Maundy Thursday.

I didn't actually know what that service entailed until I got there and learned that we would, as a congregation, be washing one another's feet. I was sitting with a friend, so there was no stranger danger [you know, when you're in danger of having to touch a stranger's foot], but still I was sweating it a little. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to touch her feet, because I felt confident her foot hygiene was just fine, and I didn't think she'd judge my washing techniques or anything. No, what made me nervous was having another person holding my feet in their hands. I hadn't prepared. I haven't had a pedicure in months, but this was going to happen even though my nail polish was chipped and my heels were calloused. Our feet, in a way, serve as a symbol of where we've been. In order to get anywhere our feet have to take us, so at the end of a day, our feet have on them all the mess of a day we lived and sinned in. That's a scary thing to put in the hands of another person.

I tried to put myself in the position of the disciples on that night when Jesus knelt before them and took their feet in his hands. I tried to imagine the panic that the disciples must have felt when they prepared to have their dirtiest part examined, up close and personal, by their leader, their savior, their mentor. I imagine their thoughts were similar to mine: COME AGAIN? We're going to do what, exactly? But I didn't prepare for this! I get why Simon Peter flipped out a little and tried to refuse. He wasn't ready, hadn't prepared. Had he known Jesus would be washing his feet, maybe he would have walked more carefully on his way over. Maybe he would have avoided that one place where things get especially messy. I thought of how I approach Jesus all the time - prepared, prettied, primped. Ready to go, looking my Sunday best. Heaven forbid he see the real, true, hot mess that is me.

But regardless of their lack of preparation, Jesus took their feet and washed them of the mess of the day. And in so doing, I think he sent a very clear message to the disciples (or at least, to me): I know. I know the very messiest parts of your mess. I know where you've been. And I know what I'm doing. Then he instructed them to do the same for each other. It was a symbol of humility, of service, yes. But I think it's also a command for vulnerability in community.

At our Good Friday service, we were given the opportunity to write down any sin we felt convicted of and nail it onto a giant wooden cross near the altar. [Revisit the above checklist for my feelings on this.] I thought of the most depraved parts of myself, and I scribbled them quickly, carefully onto the paper. I approached the cross, praying no one would see what I'd written, and the previous day's thoughts began circling in my head as I put together the pieces. I thought, my sin is too great. My list is too long. There's no way Jesus can cover this much. And there's no way, if Jesus had known what I would be doing, how I would betray and deny and doubt him, he would have done this for me.

But I wonder if it's not exactly what he was saying when he washed the disciples' feet. Jesus knew full well how awful you and I would be. He knew he would be betrayed and denied by the very men whose actual feet he washed. And God sacrificed Christ that we might be saved in spite of that. Jesus saw their feet. He knew their messiest, dirtiest, most shameful places. He knew, and he gave his life anyway.

For the season of Lent, we purposefully omit my favorite part of the liturgy of my church [which for the record 1. is awesome and 2. no longer makes me uncomfortable]. At the end of service every Sunday, we throw stuff at the cross. Not objects, that might get violent, but we mimic throwing stuff at the cross. It's the best. Our pastor says the "all of our..." part, and then all together we say the rest:

All of our problems - we send to the cross of Christ
All of our sins - we send to the cross of Christ
All the devil's works - we send to the cross of Christ
And all of our hopes - we set on the risen Christ

Today we will throw things again. Today is Easter and Easter is my favorite because it means that we are saved. We are free. We are loved. We have a place to throw our junk and a place to set our hopes. We have a Savior who loves to wash us clean and we have a community of believers to be our messy selves in. We get grace and mercy and all kinds of wonderful gifts we didn't earn and don't deserve.

I've had this song in my head all week:

To make a wretch his treasure.
To make me his treasure.
To make you his treasure.

Hallelujah!
HALLELUJAH!
HALLELUJAH!

Jesus loves me, this I know

Yesterday I had a horrible day.

I won't get into it because it's so not worth it, but it was bad. I was crying before I even got to work, and everything from then on just made me do more of that. It was like for one day I just had zero stress tolerance. The stuff that happened wasn't that bad, but I felt completely and uncharacteristically ill-equipped to handle it. So I didn't, not well anyway. I cried a lot and spent more than average amounts of time on the phone with my mom. It wasn't pretty. Also it was snowing. In April. Which we all know I don't love.

I was so ready for the day to be over, but I had long-standing plans to spend time with my sweet friend Morgan, as she has recently returned from being cool and living in France for a bit of time. But as the day dragged on, I was feeling less and less like spending time with anyone, and started thinking I might cancel. I sent a few non-committal texts and we decided we'd grab dinner right after I got off work and then I could go home and go to bed dramatically early. Like salt in a wound, on my way to fetch her from her place of residence, I got stuck in a million hours of women's basketball championship traffic. I continued to feel woe-is-me about the state of my life. But then, while sitting at yet another traffic stop perusing the endless abyss that is Twitter, something caught my eye.

One of my all-time favorite old movies, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, was being screened tonight, for one night only, at this artsy little theater not far from my friend. I looked at the clock - the timing was perfect. After a moment of I'll never get anyone to go with me sadness, I realized something great: if I was going to convince anyone to go sit through 2+ hours of Debbie Reynolds at the last minute on a Tuesday night, it's absolutely going to be Morgan. How fortunate that I have such good taste in friends. And how fortunate that her response when I presented the option to her was, without a moment's hesitation, "well, should I make us some popcorn?" Didn't I say I have good taste in friends?

Now, I don't want to sound sacrilegious, but Jesus loves me, this I know: this was no ordinary night at the movies. The event was put on by the Molly Brown Society, and it was a whole to-do. There were women everywhere in period costumes, a band playing music that sounded straight from Christmas Morgan's saloon (banjos and bagpipes, be still my heart). They even had complimentary "gin and titonics" for us after the movie, in which there were ice cubes in the shape of the Titanic, I'm not even kidding. [Not to mention, compounding good with goodness, this whole movie deal is a series. And next week, the very day before my birthday, they are screening the only movie that I could possibly be more excited to see on the big screen than Molly Brown - Thoroughly Modern Millie. It's a birthdayweek miracle.]

For those of you who don't know me well, all of this is right up my alley. I was giddy. I can't imagine a more tailor-made event to turn around my terrible, hopeless day than this one. Like, a normal night at the movies would have been great - this, though, felt like a party planned just for me. That might sound really stupid to you, but I felt full and loved. Not in a generic, ordinary way. In a hugely personal, intimate kind of way.

The kind of way I believe we're supposed to experience Jesus.

So no, while I don't think Jesus commissioned a bunch of ladies to dress up in big hats and that cute bartender with the 50's haircut to make us free drinks just to turn my bad day around, I do believe it's a picture of how Jesus loves us. Personally. Intimately. At the end of a long day when hope feels lost, joy is restored in a way that nothing and no one else could even come close to doing. I think it's apt that this came during holy week, too. Because as I've thought about it more, I wonder how much more beautiful to experience the death and resurrection of Christ through the lens of a love so profoundly and personally intimate. Christ's sacrifice was for everyone, but it's not selfish or silly to feel like it was for you, specifically, because it was. All at the same time, each and every one of us is loved by God in a way that feels like walking unexpectedly into a party thrown just for us.

That's just about the best thing I've ever known.