Vacation, day 5.

Vacation highlights to date:

1)      Receiving an email from a good friend in Canada who recommended that I check out the band Listener; then showing that email to our friend Dan, who IS Listener, and watching him humbly and awkwardly process that praise before taking the stage.

2)      Making burgers for friends last night which, in spite of the lack of buns and abundance of bread, still tasted quite gourmet.  We all wiped our mouths with last year’s ‘Happy Birthday!’ napkins when we were through because, even on vacation, I can still be practical.

3)      Staying dry so far, in spite of the fact that our tent – which had ‘never been opened’ – is actually missing the rain fly.  (I know, Momma, you told me to do a trial run and set it up.  I didn’t listen.  You were right; I was wrong.)

4)      Seeing Brian be in such a happy place.  Period.  This is good for both our souls.

In a couple hours I’ll be doing some haircuts for the gourmet burger friends.  Yes, I brought my scissors.  And I know I’m on vacation, but you see this is good for me.  Because once I fix them up, I’ll be much less distracted by hair when they’re on stage tonight.  My motives are fifty percent generous, fifty percent selfish.  Photoside Café is such a rare and talented band that I insist on as few distractions as possible.

Vacation, day 4. The Ice Nazi.

So Illinois doesn’t like our sense of humor.

After a significant battle over who trumps whom (Subway vs. Arby’s), Brian and I spent about an hour working through our WalMart checklist.  (You know… full length mirror, mouthwash, groceries… all the important camping necessities.)

We chitchatted with our friendly WalMart cashier (a clear sign that we are NOT in Northern Virginia anymore) and exited with the intention of grabbing the two bags of ice that were rung up at the register.  Except there was one problem.  A sweet, little old lady, whom I will affectionately refer to as the Ice Nazi, scanned over our receipt only to find that *gasp!* ‘ice’ was nowhere to be found.

Instead of seeing two lines of ‘Ice…$3.74,’ there were two lines of something else for $4.74.  This.  Would.  Not.  Do.  Ice Nazi wasn’t letting us get away with these shenanigans.  That receipt would HAVE to read ‘ice’ on it.  Never mind that the store would have been $2.00 richer if we just grabbed the bags of ice and walked out.  We were directed to customer service.  Now, if you’re from Northern Virginia you know to avoid WalMart customer service at all costs.  As it turns out, this is one more difference between Illinois and Virginia.   Apparently, in some cultures, you can both smile and attend WalMart's customer service desk at the same time.

We explained our ice situation to the kind customer service lady.

Me, “Yeah, we can’t get past the ice lady if the receipt doesn’t say ‘ice.’”

Customer Service Lady gives a knowing chuckle.

Brian, “Actually, she’s probably 70 years old.  We probably could get past her.”

I chuckle.

Brian chuckles.

Customer Service Lady does not chuckle.  She is not impressed.

I chuckle nervously.  Oh, dear, now she thinks we’re laughing at the thought of plowing through Ice Nazi.

Brian later assured me that he was envisioning outrunning her.  But it was too late.  Just when we thought we could fit in at WalMart, we demoted ourselves by upsetting customer service with our twisted humor.  I did not know that it was possible to be on the offending end of that relationship.

Whoopsie.

Regardless, last night I fell asleep with a smile on my face.  I was lullabied by the sounds of heavy death metal in the distance.  All in all, in spite of a few setbacks, we succeeded in setting up our humble campsite and have both accidently referred to it as ‘home’ a few times already.  For breakfast this morning I scrounged up some scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, home fries and fresh sliced strawberries.  Brian’s warming up some shower water for me as I finish… and OMGoodness… Now I really feel at home.  I hear a hairdryer in the distance!

Vacation, day 3 - The monsoon incident.

A few of my clients can't believe that I'm the camping type.  When they hear that their hairstylist is not going to the beach for vacation, but instead going to the corn fields of Illinois to camp for a week at a music festival, their faces tend to take on this scrunchy, why-on-earth-would-you-do-that expression.  But you see, this kind of 'roughing it' is nothing compared to camping at an orphanage in El Salvador.

Thirteen years ago I embarked on a summer mission trip with a team of about 30 people.  After two weeks of boot camp type preparation, we reached our destination in El Salvador and promptly set up our camp site.  The day was sunny and the hours seemed long, as they always do when you're 14 years old and don't know what you're doing. 

If I had known what I was doing, not only would I have set up faster, but I probably wouldn't have situated my tent at the bottom of a hill.  Did you know that El Salvador's rainy season is from May to October?  There we were, smack dab in the middle of their invierno.  And so that first night, with no mercy, we received the welcoming rains of what I can only describe as a monsoon.  And every single drop made its way down the hill to my tent.

I awoke to a soggy sleeping bag beneath me.  Knowing that I needed more height to stay dry, I looked over at my duffel bag and considered its contents: a bucket, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, a box of laundry detergent, my hard hat, etc. Uncomfortable as it might have been, it was clearly my only option for staying dry at that point.  I placed my duffel bag on top of my sleeping bag and felt like a stray cat as I curled up on it. It was about as cozy as curling up on a shelf of canned goods.  This arrangement only worked for so long as eventually my tent, my duffel bag, my hair, the clothes I was wearing and, I can only assume, everything else in the entire country was drenched through and through.  And, oh, it was cold.  So cold.  Do you know that I get very irritable when I'm cold?

Miserable and mad at the world, I must have looked like an angry little hornet the next morning.  I had gotten no sleep worth mentioning.  For the first time in my life I considered that this might be what it feels like to be homeless and at the mercy of the elements.  I threw a significant pity party for myself.  I couldn't believe that I had spent months raising support for this, babysitting and house cleaning just to fly to Central America to camp in a monsoon.  Couldn't I have just stayed home and slept in a creek for free and without all the hassle?  Woe was me.

Then God, in His kindness, opened my eyes to the reality of the situation.  Yeah, I might have felt homeless, but I most certainly was not.  This was one night out of 14 years that I slept both cold and wet; unfortunately some people don't even have the protection of a paper-thin tent.  This night was an exception for me, but it's the norm for some others.  And for crying out loud, I was at an orphanage!  At least I had the assurance of knowing that when this trip was over I had a mother at home waiting for me.  How could I be so near-sighted as to lose perspective of this?  What I initially believed to be one of the most hated experiences in my life turned out to be one of the most gracious lessons and biggest eye-openers: If this is as bad as it gets, then I've got it pretty good.

I repeated that mantra to myself a lot that summer.  Like when my body was tired from hauling heavy bags of cement back and forth to the worksite: If this is as bad as it gets, then I've got it pretty good.  Or when I got sick upon eating at an El Salvadorian Burger King: If this is as bad as it gets, then I've got it pretty good.  

I encourage you to stop and consider your blessings today.  A lot of the times when we get angry it is because something that is the exception has affected our norm.  Be thankful that these are merely exceptions. 

Vacation, day 2.

Have you ever tried taking a picture of something far away only to find out that your camera automatically focused on a closer object?  Apparently my eyes were wired that way this morning.  Brian and I are staying at a quaint bed and breakfast that’s situated on a river in Peoria, Illinois.  Our bedroom has two large windows to offer a gorgeous view of the water.

But I don’t see the water.

What I do see are about 200 bugs (I’ll call them river bugs) that are going to die any minute now.  These are quite large river bugs and they’re pretty much all caught in a spider web death trap outside my window.  I’m not going to lie; the scene is pretty upsetting – the struggling, flapping and twisting to get free.  I have a feeling that I’m going to remember this sick feeling long after I’ve forgotten the name of this place.

On a happier nature note, I realized something tonight.

After a wonderful day of exploration and quality time with friends, we headed back to the b&b.  Brian was driving, which gave me ample time to look out and notice the expansive starry sky.  I felt like it was the first time I had appreciated this masterpiece in quite some time.  Remember what it was like to star gaze as a child?  Whatever marvelous and mysterious feeling it is that you get in your chest is the same feeling I had in mine tonight.  It’s interesting to me that we humans can’t quite recreate that light show.  And what’s ironic is that when it’s nighttime, my eyes are usually painfully sensitive to lights (traffic lights, brake lights, etc.).

Well, there was nothing painful about this.  (…except for the realization that I miss out on it almost every night  – which is a good pain, because it’s a gentle reproof that has an easy and winsome remedy.)

Turns out I can still blog! Vacation, Day 1

“There is beauty in simplicity.”  True.  Though I’m still not sure why that’s in my fortune cookie. 

Three and a half hours into our drive, Brian and I stopped for a short lunch.  Prior to this, our total combined breakfast consisted of water, coffee, Pepsi and kettle corn pop corn.  It’s not such a terrible thing that my stomach was empty considering that Brian admittedly “drives like a squirrel runs.”

“Beauty in simplicity,” eh?  What ever happened to fortune cookies?  Wouldn’t you like to crack one open today and read, “You’re going to get all green lights,” or “You’ll do well when you get to aisle 5”?  Even if its prediction was wrong, you would’ve been amused for a minute at the thought of it anyhow.  And who puts that much stock in a cookie?  When did the fortune manufacturers wimp out and start printing what can only be described as comment cookies?

“Beauty in simplicity."

I received this ‘fortune’ and chuckled to myself as I headed back to our car and admired Brian’s ability to pack it like a game of Tetris.  For going camping, I have brought my:

ü  Barnes and Noble Nook

ü  Our 2 Sprint EVO phones (with one acting as a WiFi hotspot)

ü  My laptop

ü  A coffee pot

ü  A refrigerated cooler (it actually plugs in)

ü  Scattegories, Settlers of Catan and Yahtzee

ü  and 40 rice krispie treats

I retort, “There’s beauty in being prepared.”

Only 8 hours and 9 minutes until we reach Peoria, Illinois.

Did I mention Brian’s ‘fortune’?

“You should be able to make money and hold onto it.”

Perhaps.  But probably not this week.

And we're off!

Tomorrow morning Brian and I will set out for our 3^rd annual road trip to Cornerstone Music Festival in Bushnell, Illinois.  I sure do love this road trip.  To me, getting there is definitely part of the vacation.  It's such a treat to get to read, rest, plan, brainstorm about our future, look out the window, etc.  Brian understands how much I need to be the DJ, too; so that helps with the 14 hour drive.

All my homework is finished.  I've listened to a snippet online of every single band that will be there and have created an alphabetical word document to organize which bands are worth hearing and which bands can take the backseat.  I’ve never seen anyone else walk around the music festival with their own list of rated bands.  Do no other type A personalities attend these sort of things?

Yet every year I come home feeling a little less city, a little less regimented and a little more hippy. 

Here are a few things I’m looking forward to:

·         Discovering talented, lesser-known bands

·         Stalking a few of my favorite bands

·         Getting caught up in that ‘reunion’ feeling

·         Remembering how much I love living with less everything

·         Eating a soft serve ice cream cone every day

·         Enjoying all the people watching (tattoo watching, hair watching, fashion watching)

·         Coming home with new music to use for future Christmas gifts

Brian and I ‘camp’ there for 6 nights.  We deserve a little ridicule for how easy we’ve got it though.  Even though we sleep in a tent, we still rent an RV site so that we can have water and electricity.  (We’re bringing the actual coffee pot this year!)  Before we arrive, we always stop at the last WalMart around and load up on some goodies.  I’m slightly ashamed to say that one of these goodies, for me, is a cheap full length mirror.  That’s right.  And I prop it up right next to the tent.  I’m pretty sure it’s the only full length mirror on the campground and at the entire music festival.  But I feel like my status as hairstylist enables me to get by with a little more vanity.  And while I’m sitting here trying to think of more ways to justify this, nothing else comes to mind. 

I’ll be blogless for the next 9-10 days.  Sad, I know.  Square Piece seems to be keeping me sane these days.  But I promise to come back with pictures, enthusiastic recommendations and exciting stories to share.  And I have to come back.  My dogs are waiting for me.

Why I almost wasn't your hairstylist.

When I got home last night, Brian was very worried about me.  I was staring off into space, teary-eyed. 

Brian, “Would you like some more to eat?”

Me, “I don’t know.”

All right.  Who doesn’t know if they’d like more to eat?

Me.  Because I had something else on my mind.  Yesterday morning I woke up and wrote a very pleasant blog about why I’m a hairstylist today.  A few hours later I was trying to get out of work.  You know me; whatever my hand finds to do, I do it with all my might.  It’s a work ethic.  But what happened in between those few hours was a little incident at the gym.  You see, I’m accident prone.  Upon putting a dumbbell away, I ended up smashing my finger with it instead – specifically my left ring finger.  I tried to shake it off, but the pain just intensified – both a fiery pain and a throbbing pain.  Then I took a peek and noticed that I was bleeding under the nail.  Just great.  Of course my first thought was my work schedule.  I had 8 ½ hours booked solid yesterday, 9 hours today and not a minute to spare tomorrow.  And these are the last 3 days of work before my vacation.  So if I couldn’t make yesterday’s appointments, they’d certainly have to wait almost another 2 weeks.

I iced my finger for 2 ½ hours.  In the meantime I called the salon and explained my situation to our receptionist.  We both knew I had no wiggle room.  I was envisioning a few particular appointments that were very difficult to reschedule and decided that in the long run the pain of making them up would be worse than the pain I was currently feeling in my finger.

Except I was slightly wrong.  Less than 2 hours into the work day I must’ve jolted the finger because I saw the blood begin to expand under the nail again.  I was in a mental tizzy, worrying about permanently losing a nail over a haircut that was only temporary and would once again need to be reshaped in 4-6 weeks.  It was a rough day. 

Couple all that with the fact that I couldn’t walk my dogs that morning (what with all the finger icing).  When I left for work, poor little Esther stared out the door with a Wait!-Did-you-forget-me? face.  I hate that face.  Because, no, I never forget her.  People say that I have strong heartstrings and that this will be hard when I have kids one day.  I believe that.

And poor Brian.  Whenever I’m this upset, he always thinks he’s in trouble.  So even though he did absolutely nothing wrong, that evening he was slinking around with a guilty look on his face.  He claims that he’s not used to things not being his fault.

I couldn’t blog this morning because I still couldn’t really use my finger.  This evening it feels much improved.  Here’s hoping for a full recovery!

Why I'm your hairstylist.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a cow girl. The decision was easy because, you see, I already had the perfect outfit. Eventually I grew out of said outfit and decided to be a few more things: a teacher, a lawyer, a news anchor and a flight attendant. But definitely never a missionary (because they’re just crazy). And definitely never a hairstylist (because I believed that people assumed hairstylists didn’t excel in school, and I was a straight A student).

Then in my teens I experienced a gradual 180^o change of heart. I was fortunate enough to travel abroad on several summer mission trips. These experiences of serving people who lived with less left my heart aching for more, a life of selfless service. For a while I resisted this weight on my heart; but when I finally surrendered to it, I went bananas with it. I remembered what it was like when missionaries would come back on sabbatical and share their stories with the church. They’d freak us all out with the details of how they had adapted to their new culture: what they ate, what they wore, what they lived without, etc. These missionaries would use bizarre visual aids to really grip our attention and drive home just how strange life was for them.

Well, I wanted to freak people out, too. Where a life of missions work used to repel me, suddenly I just knew I was perfect for the job! First of all, I was fluent in French, which was perfect for a move to Africa. Second of all, my heart was already abroad.  Our American lifestyle seemed so indulgent and I could see myself living with the bare minimum elsewhere. Thirdly, and most importantly, I had a lot of pride. Not the good kind. The I-think-I’m-better-and-braver kind. The you-need-refrigeration-and-I-don’t kind. The look-at-how-much-I’m-willing-to-sacrifice kind. What competitive and arrogant pride I had! Look at how I took a pure direction from the Lord and mangled it with my own filthy, self-interested, pat-me-on-the-back agenda!

God was not fooled. To anyone else it might have seemed like I wanted to serve the Lord. Really, if you checked my heart, I was just serving myself.

Fast forward to 19 years old, I had been through 1 ½ years of Bible school/missions training. Jesus and I took a long walk where He did the talking and I did the listening. Slowly and kindly He settled on my heart three handpicked, pride-killing ministries for me to set my sights on.

#1) America.

No! Not America! Anywhere but here! I’ve already told everyone I’ll be living overseas! They’ll think I chickened out! America already has a church on every corner! Take me somewhere where I need to be brave! I don’t need to be brave to live here; I’ll be too comfortable... just like everybody else!

#2) Women.

No! Not women! Women hate me! And they never really say what they're thinking! I get along so much better with men. I don’t connect well with women. You know this!

#3) Christians.

Now just hold it right there. Christians suffocate me! Just how am I supposed to explain this to everyone? You want me - when there’s a world full of disadvantaged, hurting families in underdeveloped countries – to show the love of God to people who already believe in the love of God? What a waste! Use me somewhere else! I’m brave! Why would you open my heart to missions work just to take it away?

(What you probably don't know about me is that, at that point, I had been very, very hurt by hypocritical Christians. I had been jaded to the point where I had to step back and evaluate if I even wanted to be associated with Christianity at all. As it turns out, I might take issue with certain people who claim to be Christians, but I take no issue with Jesus.)

God let me chew on this for some time. It felt like a rug had been pulled out from under me. Isn’t it the worst feeling when you have to go back on the words that you’ve spoken with the most enthusiasm, the plans you’ve declared and then undeclared? It doesn’t feel brave; it feels meek and embarrassing.

When I moved back home, less than a year later, my mom told me that a woman from her church was looking for an apprentice at a hair salon. I went through my mental checklist: America? yes; Women? yes; Christians? yes. Then I did a little mental shrug and figured that if I was going to let God break me of my pride, I might as well let Him finish the job.

I have been a hair stylist for almost 8 years now and can say with 100% certainty that I was made for this. God knew me better than I knew myself (no big surprise there since He designed me this way). If it wasn’t for my big, fat, arrogant pride getting in the way of everything He might not have had to go such a roundabout way of getting me here. But I’m so glad He did.

The mint incident.

We all have our favorite summer drinks, right?  Whether it’s boozed up or non-alcoholic, we just don’t tend to crave the same beverages in the summer as we do in the winter.  In the winter I drink loads of hot chocolate, tea and slow cooked hard cider.  In the summer, however, it’s nice to keep things on the lighter side.

My chipped-mug friend, Sherri, enjoys a good mojito.  She and I are nerds at heart, so one evening we set up the lap top and googled mojitos.  We evaluated, cross-checked and compared every way possible to make the number one mojito until we agreed upon a perfect mix.  (One of the reasons why it’s a perfect mix is that it eliminates the extra step of making simple syrup.)

Here’s the recipe:

·         2 mint leaves muddled in the juice of ½ a lime

·         handful of ice

·         2 ½ oz. Parrot Bay key lime rum

·         2 ½ oz. club soda

The next day Brian and I headed out to round up the ingredients.  After splitting a grocery list, we divided and conquered.  Brian insisted that we didn’t need to buy mint because apparently we had mint growing at our house.  This was news to me!  Not only can I NOT tell one plant from another, I definitely do not have a green thumb.  I’ve been responsible for the death of 2 aloe plants and a cactus.  In fact, if I just look at a plant the wrong way, it’ll die.  So apparently the mint was thriving in my ignorance.  The rest of the ingredients (and a few other groceries) were purchased and we headed home.

On the way back Brian had a suspicious change of heart and said, “We need to go to Safeway.  I think we need to buy some mint.”

Me, “You just said that we had mint!  I don’t understand.  Did you think that it was mint and it was actually parsley or something?”

Brian, “No, it’s mint.”

Me, “Then why do we have to buy it?  It’s going to be so much more expensive at Safeway; and we were just at the Grand Mart!”

…wait for it…

Not making eye contact, but looking straight ahead with both hands on the wheel, Brian said, “I think I may have peed on the mint.”

Hold.  Up.  “You may have peed on the mint?!”

See now, this is the difference between a man and a woman.  A woman wouldn’t pee on her produce.  So I learned 2 things that afternoon: We have mint; and my husband pees outside sometimes.  Fabulous.

“So, did you?  Do we need more mint?”

Brian, “I don’t know.  I’ll have to check the spot.”

Oh, now he has a spot.

We went home.  He checked ‘the spot’ (which, I would like to mention, is not in the back, but in the front of our house).  Fortunately his morning aim had missed a majority of the mint; and so, with an extra special washing just in case, Sherri and I were able to make our mojitos while enjoying a hearty laugh.

The regular pork chop incident.

When I was in middle school I watched the show “Home Improvement” and was smitten with Jonathan Taylor Thomas.  He played the character of the middle child.  I didn’t need wallpaper in my room because cutouts of JTT’s face covered every inch.  I was in love.  He did not, however, feel the same way toward me.  Never once did he write me back.  Never once did he fly out to West Virginia in a helicopter and whisk me away as I dreamed he would – not even after I counted his freckles and sent him hand written, original poetry.  In spite of his silence I faithfully read and clipped every JTT article.  One morning my mom pointed out to me that the cast of Home Improvement was on the cover of the Parade, which is an insert in the Sunday Washington Post.  I never really noticed the Parade before; but considering their intriguing content, not only did I peruse the insert that day, I continued to peruse it every week.

Eventually I started fixating on the weekly featured recipes.  Initially I’m sure I dreamed of cooking these recipes for JTT; but once my crush for him faded, I began to dream more broadly about the future husband for whom I’d get to cook.  And so, where some girls own a hope chest, I started a teeny, tiny scrapbook of recipes around the age of 13.  You see, I had never met my husband, but I already loved him.  I simply could not wait to lavish my creativity and culinary energy on the man who would one day take me as his wife.  Now that might seem a little silly, dreamy, or creepy and obsessive.  But, you see, I’m 50% Italian.  And for Italians, if you love somebody you feed them.  It’s as simple as that.

Then I met Brian.

Did you ever see the movie "Curly Sue"?  Sue could spell long and complicated words because she had been taught how to do that.  But no one ever taught Sue how to spell more elementary words like cat or dog.  This was our dilemma.  One evening Brian came home from work and I was thrilled to present him my very first slow-cooked meal ever.  I made Caribbean Pork Chops.  Brian looked at them warily, cautiously and then sighed, “Can’t you just make regular pork chops?”

"No.  No, I cannot make 'regular pork chops.'  My slow cooker didn’t come with a recipe for 'regular pork chops.'  It came with a recipe for 'Caribbean pork chops.'  You know, the more complicated kind of pork chops?  The kind that required more time and for me - for the very first time ever - to cook with thyme-mince my own garlic-chop my own scallions-seed my first chili pepper-and-grate my own ginger-kind-of-pork-chops?"

Unfortunately Brian didn’t eat anything made with thyme, garlic, scallions, chili peppers or ginger.

He also didn’t eat:

      1)      Rice

2)      Chicken

3)      Pasta

4)      Anything with honey dijon flavor

5)      Anything with barbeque flavor

6)      Mexican food

7)      Chinese food

8)      Indian food

9)      Loose meat (no sloppy joes or pulled pork, all meat had to be in tact)

10)   Vegetables

11)   Fish

12)   Potato Salad

13)   Butternut squash soup (that’s a WHOLE ‘nother story)

14)   Any pizza topped with a topping other than pepperoni

15)   and leftovers

It was a tough first year.  I wanted to be his gourmet chef and he wanted a $.99 Totino’s frozen pizza.

But I’m here to say that if you’ve ever doubted the existence of God, here is a modern day miracle: Today my husband, Brian Spears, not only eats ALL of the above, he cooks it for me, too!  And not only does he cook it for me, he shops for all the ingredients himself… with coupons.

And did I mention that today he thinks Caribbean pork chops are delicious?

My chipped-mug friend.

My house feels like a home.  Countless number of people have commented on how at ease they've gotten when they’ve come over.  It is a house of peace and rest.  (One time a woman told me that upon entering our gate it felt like entering the twilight zone because such a different feeling came over her!)  Regularly touring bands will swing by our house for a place to crash for the night; they can do laundry, they can shower.  With one hand they can work on the puzzle on the kitchen table and with the other hand they can pet the basset hound at their feet.  I’ve never asked anyone to take off their shoes before entering.  In fact, before we got the incredible iRobot Roomba, I was embarrassed for a guest to take off his shoes as he’d probably end up with stray pet hair under his feet.  Try as we might, Brian and I - to this day - have still not worked out a manageable house cleaning system where we can maintain each room on a regular rotating basis.  But one thing we have in common: we both have hearts that want to use our home for ministry.  We long for our abode to be a place of physical and spiritual relief and rejuvenation. 

Several years ago I invited a group of women over.  I have absolutely no idea what the occasion was, but I remember that I was serving hot beverages.  I know this because I had to assess my mug situation.  We have a slew of mugs.  Most of our mugs have their own unique look and no mate.  I used to think this was charming until I was invited over to somebody else’s house the other day and all their mugs matched.  So I wondered, “Am I a rare exception?  Do people think Brian and I live like unsophisticated cave people with all of our mismatched mugs?”

Well, on this night I had just enough mugs for just enough people.  The only problem was that one of my mugs had a chip in it right where you’d be likely to place your mouth and take a sip.  I was worried that 1) a woman might cut their lip and 2) a guest might think less of me for serving her a beverage in a chipped mug.

Now I hadn’t lived in Northern Virginia all my life.  I was relatively new to the scene.  And I don’t mean to whine, but - GOODNESS! - it is hard to make friends out here.  This area is so populated that it’s a cinch to make acquaintances.  But friends?  Good luck.

Then entered Sherri.  I had been doing Sherri’s hair for a while and through my recommendation she checked out our church and decided that it was the right fit for her.  Of all the women coming over, for some instinctive reason I knew that I was the least worried about Sherri managing the chipped mug.  So with a hushed voice I approached her and explained my awkward situation.  She was thrilled and honored to spare my embarrassment and claimed the chipped mug for the night.  It was on that night that I could count one more friend in my life.

Sherri's story of our friendship is not dissimilar.  I'm sure this has never happened to you, but certainly you've seen someone attempt to contain their laughter when in the same moment they've taken a swig of, say, water.  They're out of luck and the water sprays everywhere, right?  Well, at a different get-together on a different night, several of us were sitting outside enjoying a delicious spread.  Sherri had just taken a full bite of strawberries when something unexpectedly hilarious happened. And in the brief millisecond when she knew she had to turn to the right or turn to the left, she chose to turn to the left - because that’s where I was sitting – and sprayed them all over me.  And while she wasn’t as well acquainted with the guest on her right, she knew I’d understand.  And I did. 

Because she was my chipped-mug friend.

My own Bathsheba.

About two years ago, the neighbor that hates me invited me to an upcoming jewelry party.  Every time this neighbor walks up to our fence to make small talk I get knots in my stomach.  It never feels small.  I know she isn’t entirely fond of us being her neighbors, so even the smallest talk feels very, very heavy.

A jewelry party, you say?  I supposed an appearance and a small order might help the neighborly relations a bit; so on the day of the party, Sherri, my 'chipped-mug' friend, accompanied me for moral support (just like any good girl friend would join you, say, to a public restroom).  (Clearly the 'chipped-mug' description deserves an explanation.  You’re right.  Stay tuned.)

While I wasn’t in a financial position to indulge myself in jewelry, I did notice a cute pair of earrings that Sherri would look great in.  I snuck away and explained to the jeweler that I needed to be discreet about this purchase because the recipient of the gift was attending the party.  And that evening as we both walked back to my house, I couldn’t hold on to my wonderful secret for one more second.  Immediately I confessed that my purchase was, in fact, for her.  We have a beautiful friendship.  She then confessed the very same thing! 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later when Sherri told me that her order came in the mail that I realized I was still waiting for mine.  So I waited and waited.  Nothing.  Finally I got ahold of the jeweler and explained that perhaps the earrings were lost in the mail.  It seemed that everyone had their jewelry but me.  She graciously arranged for the jewelry company to send me a replacement pair and I got them with plenty of time to gift them for Christmas.

Now keep that in the back of your mind while I remind you of the story of David and Bathsheba.  King David had hundreds of wives and concubines. He should have been satisfied (or extremely overwhelmed), right? No, sir. Once he spotted Bathsheba he just had to have her. Nevermind that she was married. King David just ordered her husband up to the frontlines of battle to ensure his death. Sneaky. Since Bathsheba’s husband was dead, it didn’t seem unusual for King David to take her as one more wife for himself.  And while everything might have seemed easy-breezy from the outside, on the inside David was guilty of murder.

One thing you should know about me is that I’ve got thousands of dollars worth of high fashion jewelry (not the real stuff, but the less expensive, fun stuff).  This jewelry wasn't purchased; it was earned by hosting jewelry parties myself for the last 6 years.

Well, the other day Brian handed me a small, mangled manila package.  He said he found it in his tool box in the garage.  Ripping into it, I discovered the original, missing earrings. 

And I wanted them. 

Oh, how I wanted them.  In that moment a small part of me understood King David.  It wasn’t enough that I had it all.  THESE were the earrings that I really needed to be completely satisfied.  But as I considered my life with these new earrings I realized that I couldn’t wear them around Sherri or she’d be suspicious.  And I couldn’t wear them at the salon because my neighbor might show up for an appointment.  (You do realize that I have very few hours left in the day when I subtract the ones with Sherri and the ones at the salon.)  So I’d have to secretly enjoy these earrings around the house, only when I’m with Brian, or when I'm out of the state.  You see, I have a very guilty conscience.  I knew I didn’t pay for 2 pairs of earrings.  But, oh, I wanted them.  And I wanted them for free.

The sneaky feeling was slimy and unsettling, so I called Sherri for some objective wisdom.  “Give her back the earrings,” she said.  I slumped.  I knew she’d say that.  I didn’t want to be like King David, selfish and unsatisfied, willing to compromise my obedient love for the Lord in exchange for my own greed.

Just this afternoon with earrings in hand I found the jeweler’s house and rang the door bell.  No answer.  I knocked on the door.  No answer.  I rang the door bell again.  Finally an answer.  The jeweler’s husband opened the door, and, no, his wife was not home.  

So I asked him, “If I told you a story would you be able to remember it and tell your wife?”  Then I recounted how 2 years ago my husband ordered a few things online; and what he assumed was a memory card for a digital recorder were actually these earrings.  They have been residing in his tool box all along.  This sweet man – with a sweet smile and 2 sweet dogs sniffing my feet – went on and on about how loving and giving his wife is; then he looked me in the eyes and said, “Merry Christmas.”

*sigh*  I practically skipped home.  Now I have one more pair of earrings and none of the guilt.

Did I mention how much I love Christmas?

Perhaps I should have warned Donovan.

When little girls dream about the future princes they’ll marry some day, they spend a lot of time dreaming about the wedding, the dress and the location.  Sometimes they even dream about what it will be like to care for their husbands-to-be, with selfless joy and unending patience.  And I was no exception.

What I did NOT spend much time dreaming about was the moment that I would get to introduce my future prince, the one, to my family.  And not only did I not prepare myself for it, I did not prepare my family for it.  And when I say my family, I mean I didn’t prepare my brother Donovan for it.

Oh, Donovan.

Dear, sweet Donovan is 14 years younger than me, but we have some peculiar similarities:

1)      Our big, wondering eyes (according to Brian).

2)      Our verbal mannerisms.  When engaged in group conversation, we both have a hard time letting go of a topic that everyone else has long since forgotten.  Just when you think we’re capable of normal social behavior, we prove you wrong by having to interject our very important points that probably should have been made 20 minutes ago.

3)      …which is particularly amusing being that we speak with the same sort of hemming, hawing and stammering.

But the similarity that’s always been pointed out the most is:

4)      Our sensitive nature.  Specifically, we're visually sensitive.  

So finally the evening came that this princess could introduce her future prince to the family.  Imagine for one second what it would feel like to be Brian on that night.  You really hope the parents like you.  You really hope that this moment won’t be painful.  You really hope that everyone is friendly and welcoming.  Because, of course, if we’re being honest, you really hope to marry me one day.

And the night probably would have gone without a hitch.  Except there was one problem.

Have you ever seen children react from a haunted house being just a little too haunted for them?  Do you know that frightened tone they get in their voices when they cling to Momma's leg and cry, "I want to go home!"? 

Remember that tone.

We walked in the front door, past the kitchen and into the living room where everyone was entertaining themselves.  Donovan took one look at Brian. 

His eyes widened. 
His lip quivered. 
Alarmed he cried, “WhooooOOOoooo’s thaaAaaAaat?!” 
And then he burst into tears.

And then he ran away.

Can you imagine what it must feel like for a child to burst into tears at the sight of you?  And if that wasn't enough, Brian was then left to introduce himself to my parents as I abandoned him to run after Donovan.  Poor Prince Brian.

I'm not saying this was a proud moment.  But I sincerely didn't see that coming.  To this day when I remember Donovan's tone and Brian's misfortune, I still giggle to myself and think, "Could it have gone any worse than that?"  Actually, yes, the night did get worse.  Brian beat me at Monopoly.

Today Brian and Donovan adore each other.

Here's a recent picture of my brother after donating his hair to Locks of Love.  (I think it's adorable when men do this!)

Did I mention that Locks of Love is one more experience we have in common?

Armed with a Q-tip.

Yesterday one of my coworkers hobbled into the back room and I was curious.  Hairstylists have lots of reasons for hobbling: foot pain, leg pain, back pain, oh, and the dreaded hair splinters.  Did you know that last Saturday I actually pulled four hair splinters out of my right foot?

But she didn’t have any of the above.  “Plantar wart,” she sighed.

Oh, man.  Once upon a time I had a plantar wart. 

It all started at the age of 17.  This curious visitor on my toe just wouldn’t cease to make his presence known.  I had tried declaring war on him on my own, hedging away his filthy black roots.  But if you’ve ever had one you know that the deeper you go the harder the warfare is.  Plantar fights back with pain, so I’d always surrender just shy of victory.

My mom took me to the family doctor.  Sweet man.  Prescription cream written.  Prescription cream purchased.  Prescription cream applied.

And applied.

And applied.

Daggone Plantar just made himself at home.  But I’m easily distracted and awfully patient, so it wasn’t until a couple months later that I realized I’ve been faithfully slathering this cream all over my toe in vain.  There was zero change in the wart department.

And when I say faithfully, I mean shamelessly, publicly, frequently and vocally.  Sure, if my girl friends were spending the night, I’d just whip out the cream and tend to the toe. A toe wart could happen to anyone, right?   I had nothing to hide, right?  I made sure my prescription was never lost, always accessible.  It was about as easy to locate as my bedroom door.
  

So with all of this time passing and zero change, I finally decided to actually look at the prescription and read if there was something I was missing. 

Oh, yes.  There was something I was missing.

I, Suzy, 17 yr. old virgin, Suzy, who had never known a man in the Biblical sense, Suzy, had actually been given a prescription for genital warts.

Did you get that?  Genital warts.

I.  Was.  Horrified.

I resumed warfare on my toe, armed with nail clippers, hydrogen peroxide and a Q-tip.  This time with utter humiliation fueling my courage, I fought my way through the pain and laid Plantar in his grave.

Did I mention that I had used this genital wart cream shamelessly, publicly, frequently and vocally every day?