Choose Your Own Title

There were numerous things I could've titled this blog post.

The $25k Nose Ring
The Post That Poses the Risk of My Parents Not Talking to Me For the Next Six Months
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight
My Cosmic Boyfriend

I feel like I should take a vote on which title works best.

Twenty-two year old Lori wearing a really expensive nose ring

Tonight, I'd like to start with a little story. Follow me on this journey back to 1997, when I was 15 years old.

I wanted a nose ring so bad, but I was 15 so my parents justifiably said Not A Chance, You Have Enough Holes In Your Head, that sort of thing. So I bought myself a little magnetic nose ring that looked like a stud on the outside and had a magnetic backing that went inside the nostril. I looked hip AF, y'all.

Until that fateful afternoon, while taking a test in Mrs Norman's AP English class, when I sniffed too hard and sucked the magnetic backing all the way up my nostril. I began to snort and sputter in the middle of a silent testing classroom atmosphere and became the sudden object of everyone's delighted interest. It was certainly more interesting to watch me hyperventilate than to answer essay question's about Young Goodman Brown, but I did not look very hip that day.

I still wanted a nose ring though. I went away to college and met the coolest girl ever one Sunday at church. Her name was (and still is, presumably) Kanyon. She was a year or two older than me and had the most adorable silver hoop in her nose. I knew then that it wasn't a stud I wanted in my nose but a hoop like Kanyon's. (I'm willing to bet Kanyon is probably still one of the coolest girls alive, wherever she is.)

But I was 18 or 19, and my parents said No Way, You'll Look Like a Bull, And Besides, If You Pierce Your Nose We'll Stop Paying For Your College, that sort of thing.

But I still wanted that nose ring. One afternoon, my college BFF Amanda and my roommate Jonathan decided they were going to get pierced. Amanda wanted an eyebrow ring and Jonathan wanted a double helix. I accompanied them to get their piercings and was green with envy. I wanted my nose done so badly!

A few days later, just around my 20th birthday, I got to chatting about wanting a nose ring with my friend Amber after our poetry class. (I'll always remember her beautiful poem about artichoke hearts. No seriously, it was beautiful.) She was like, "Let's go do it for your birthday!" and I was like, "Okay let's go do it!" So Amber and I went to get my nose pierced.

I LOVED it.

Guess who didn't love it though? My parents. They said You Look Like a You Got A Fish Hook Stuck In Your Nose and By the Way We Are Going To Stop Paying For Your College Because We Warned You And Now We Have To Be Consistent Because That's What Good Parents Do.

And y'all, they did.

(Are you starting to catch on to some of my potential titles now? The $25k Nose Ring.)

That was my sophomore year of college. The following two years were suddenly entirely up to me to finance. So I did. I increased my student loans to the max. I got two jobs, one working at JR's Lightbulb Club and Dickson Theater as the door girl and one working for the University of Arkansas Development Office.  (It was while working in development that I had my first experience with the professional implications of having a body piercing. I was originally asked to take it out since I'd be interfacing with major gift donors, but after sharing my story with the Vice Chancellor of Development, she agreed that it was indeed a pricey piece of jewelry and settled with me changing it out for a stud.)

Let's journey through the remainder of my 20s and into my mid 30s, back to the present. I've been paying off these student loans for fifteen years, which by the way, is nothing compared to what students only five or so years after me began looking at. The kids who came up behind me have gotten royally screwed on college tuition. Anyway, here I am, 35 years old, still wearing my nose ring and still paying off my student debt.  But there's a happy ending to this story. I looked up my loan repayment plan a few weeks ago and discovered that I only have THREE months left before my student loan is entirely paid off!

By the end of 2017, I will have officially paid off this nose ring. And you know what? I'm still going to wear it. Because I LOVE it. Even if I do Look Like a Bull or a Hooked Fish or a Jezebel or Oh I Don't Know, Rebekah By the Well?

Thirty-five year old Lori still wearing a really expensive nose ring

Okay now. I'm going to get a little more serious now. In telling that nose ring story I had another purpose. One less jovial.

I'll tell another story briefly. Journey with me back to the end of August 2017. (Yeah, like two weeks ago.) On August 29th, I got in a car accident, a hit and run, and my brand new car, only purchased two weeks prior, got smashed on the driver's side, and though I was mostly uninjured, it has caused me a lot of pain and angst over the past week. Meanwhile, Hurricane Harvey was in the process of devastating Houston, Beaumont and many other parts of Texas. I was in the process of raising money for the Red Cross's response to the hurricane, which was the worst hurricane to hit landfall in over a decade, and the largest natural disaster the Red Cross has ever responded to. The car accident was really bad timing, meaning for the week that followed, I was unable to do my job effectively during an extremely crucial time. Yesterday was the first day I felt fairly normal again, despite the pain.

Today, barely a month later, Hurricane Irma swirls and heads for the continental US (and has already decimated small Caribbean islands in its path), and many of us at the Red Cross are gearing up for more disaster deployments, including myself. I've been doing everything possible to get my pain under control and get my work taken care of so I can be ready to go if or when they give me my 24 hour notice. Being a single mom now, that's no easy uncertainty to plan for. (Giving a shout out to Scott and my mom right now for both being extremely flexible with me right now regarding the children!) Amidst all of this though, and after an extremely draining day of work, I witnessed a car accident on my way home this evening right in front of me on the same freeway my accident occurred on just last week. I was one car behind the accident, and the thought of almost being in a second accident within ten days of each other has left me terrified to get behind the wheel again. What is this, Final Destination? Is death following me now?

That's the joke I made to my mom on the phone tonight. But her response wasn't so flippant. "No, this is God trying to get your attention. He's saying, 'I've been wrapping on your door for a long time, and you haven't been listening!'"

Of course I know where she's coming from, and I know she made this comment with the purest of intentions. I know she's only concerned for my eternal security. (And let me say again, she's being so helpful with childcare! This is The Post That Poses the Risk of My Parents Not Talking to Me For Six Months. I'm treading on thin ice here by posting this. I'm cruisin' for a bruisin', I'm itchin' for a switchin'.) But if she's right, does God really have such terrible timing? I mean, car accidents and deployments and devastating natural disasters, oh my! Is all of this necessary to just get my attention?

I mean, I guess he could he have just revealed himself to me six years ago when I begged and pleaded and cried out to him for faith. But maybe that wasn't part of his divine plan.

It's past 1pm now. Hence Nothing Good Happens After Midnight. I have this theory that nothing good happens after midnight, and that goes for blogging. I tend to lose my filter after midnight, tend to make less than prudent decisions, sometimes say or do things I wouldn't do before midnight. So I need to be careful what I say here. I used to feel more free to talk about my lack of faith in any religion or gods, but that was before I realized just how badly being an atheist can damage my credibility or even my career. (However, I continue to be open about my beliefs, or lack thereof, because I just don't see why anyone should have to hide who they are, particularly because of what religion they are or aren't. If other people are allowed to speak freely about their faith, surely the faithless should have the same opportunity to speak freely? But now I've just chased a squirrel. Coming back now.)

Back to the divine plan. I just don't understand this logic at all, of why God would need to send bad things my way in order to get my attention. I don't think I really understood it as a Christian either. Why would God need to use grandiose overtures to entice me back into the fold? Can't he just do it the normal way? I spent three years begging him to restore my faith. Was there any reason he couldn't have done it back then? Maybe there is some kind of super special glory he'll get from refusing to answer my cries for three years, leave me to become an atheist for three years, then suddenly hit me with a car accident (and the threat of another) in order to bring me back to him. In the midst of hurricanes, no less.

I just don't get it. This accident kept me from being able to really do my job well during the most critical week of my professional career thus far, and more importantly, during a time when thousands of people are hurting and really need as much relief and support as possible and would benefit from me and all the rest of the Red Cross family being at our best for them. Just seems kind of --- mean.


So I'll assume for a moment the existence of God - the Christian God - is a given. And that he is trying to get my attention so he can save my soul. Because he loves me, right?

But wait, did he not love me six years ago? When I was in a place of being open and receptive to his existence and influence? Why wait until now? For whatever reason though, he loves me now and only wants to save my soul from eternal damnation.

Which he designed.

As punishment for not having faith in him.

Faith which he alone gives or withholds.

He wants to put me in dangerous and precarious situations in order to scare me into faith so he can save me from the punishment he designed for me should I not get scared enough to find faith in him that only he can give anyway. I just don't get it.

Let me take you on one last journey. This is into a hypothetical, nonexistent time in my past. Maybe it's an alternate reality. Anyway, in this parallel, not-real universe, I was dating this guy who really, really loved me. But he had this propensity for constantly testing my love for him in return. He would tell me bad things about myself but remind me that he loved me so much, he could fix those bad things and make me better. I knew he was right; I was pretty shitty, but wow, the way he could fix all those shitty things about me was inspiring! He would also sometimes put me in danger - but never real danger, because he was looking after me the whole time - to see if I could really trust him enough to take care of me. And every time he did that, I really did come out safe in the end, and he really did use that to prove how much he loved me and would always save me from harm.  I was so in love with this guy, and he was so in love with me back.

There were some hard times. He often gave me the silent treatment. I was never entirely sure if it was because of something I'd done wrong or if he was just trying to test my love again. Most of the time he'd eventually break the silence, but not until after I'd begged and cried and pleaded with him with all my might. Then he would soften, lift me up off my knees, and hold me. It made everything okay again when he did that. I knew he loved me. This guy, y'all, was the most loving, perfect boyfriend I've ever had. His name was Jesus, and he was My Cosmic Boyfriend.

Oh, did I say this was a nonexistent, hypothetical scenario? I apologize. It wasn't.

My Cosmic Boyfriend ultimately wanted to save me from eternal ruin. He always knew what was best for me, despite my own petty desires. Kind of like when I was 15, and my parents understandably felt that getting a nose ring was not appropriate for me at that time. My Cosmic Boyfriend threatened me with hell if I didn't obey him. My parents threatened me with no more college tuition. My Cosmic Boyfriend needed to be consistent with his word, just like my good old mom and dad. He had threatened me with hell, so he kind of had to go through with it at that point, since he'd already said it and all. Consistency is key.

The story of my nose ring and my parents is kind of funny to me, in a OMG I Still Can't Believe They Actually Went Through With It kind of way. It's funny to me in a This Is A Great Story To Tell At Parties kind of way. And though it had some long-standing, less than humorous ramifications - fifteen years of student loan repayment during the brokest years of this millennial's life - it's really in the grand scheme of things not the worst a child should have to endure. A punishment, yes, but nothing serious.

Not like the eternal punishment of hell for not being able to force myself to believe in something I simply could no longer believe in, no matter how hard I tried. We aren't talking fifteen years of faith repayment, but an eternity. In hell of all places.

For all the joking about my parents and the nose ring, I know how much my parents love me. They have always protected me and wanted what's best for me. They went over and above to make things happen for me all through my childhood that they certainly were not required to do, just because they loved me. They provided for me, they kept me out of danger, they played the tricky tightrope of letting me learn from my own mistakes while always being ready to catch my fall. They never tested my love for them, because that would never have even occurred to them. They loved me unconditionally. They have always loved me without reserve, even now, as the atheist daughter, the One That Turned Away, the one that breaks their hearts daily as they fear for my soul. I don't fault my mom at all for how she perceives the events of the past few weeks; she loves me and wants me to see the God she sees and at the end of the day, she only wants to see me there.

My earthly parents get what love is. My Cosmic Boyfriend, not so much. If My Cosmic Boyfriend was a regular human boyfriend, everyone I know would be begging me to leave him and escape our abusive relationship. But since he's Cosmic, his ways are higher than my ways, and trying to get my attention with car accidents and hurricanes is no different than pulling my ponytail and tying my shoe laces together. Harmless boys-will-be-boys pranks. It's all just meant to show me he likes me after all. And it's all just meant to save me from the eternal ruin he has planned for me if I don't return his phone calls or agree to wear his ring. True love, right? The stuff of Disney princesses.

I just don't think that's the kind of love I deserve. I think I deserve better. If my parents know it would be cruel to orchestrate a car accident or a hurricane in order to get me to answer the door, surely an omnipotent, loving God would see the cruelty in that too. It might have been a cute story if he just made me take out a few loans to pay for the sin of disobedience, but the story becomes not quite so cute when you realize the wages of sin is death and his punishment of choice is eternal damnation.

Bathos, Stolen Corpses and Rock n' Roll

One of the coolest, most interesting classes I took in college, the kind of class that colleges should offer more of, the kind of class that is quintessentially “college”, was Folk and Pop Music Traditions. It was in the English curriculum, since we studied the lyrics as much as the history and the music itself, and was taught by a really hipster older guy professor, Dr Bob Cochran.  

Dr Cochran introduced us to all kinds of music I'd never have listened to myself, from the Carter Family to Merle Haggard to Gram Parsons. It is Gram Parsons though who's music and story has stuck with me all these years. 

He introduced us to Parsons by playing "Love Hurts" for us in class. His intent was to differentiate for us the difference between pathos and bathos.  (Pathos is the quality of evoking sympathy and sadness in someone. Bathos is when the attempt at pathos goes overboard into ludicrousy or gross sentimentalism.)  The class silently took in this song, a duet between Parsons and Emmylou Harris, whose voices blend together more beautifully than any two voices I've ever heard. When the song was over, the class sat silently, reverently. Dr Cochran laughed.

"I see you guys were taken in by that song. I was trying to show you bathos, but you all bought right in to the sentiment."

He may have forgotten that while he had all the wisdom of his 50 plus years, we were all still children living and breathing the raw truth that love hurts. 

The story of Gram Parsons is just as enticing as his music. Or maybe just the story of his death. His life was that of a typical 1960s rock star - nudie suits, tours, drugs. But his death - what a story!

He was found dead in his hotel room during a tour; the official report was drug overdose. Not uncommon. But his step-father, who had very little to do with him, requested that his body be returned to Louisiana, allegedly due to a family estate issue, and arranged a small funeral for him, excluding all of Gram's actual friends in the music industry. Gram had recently expressed wishes to be cremated when he died and have his ashes spread in Joshua Tree National Park, his favorite place on earth. So what did his loyal friends do?

They stole his dead body from the airport, of course, borrowed a hearse and drove Gram's coffin to Joshua Tree.  Unsure of how to actually cremate a body, they just poured gallons of gasoline on the coffin and lit a match, while drinking beer and sharing stories of their deceased friend. It didn't result in the small, funereal fire they expected, however, and the raging fireball resulted in a police chase. Gram's friends couldn't be arrested though, because there was no law on the books against stealing a dead body. They were fined for stealing a coffin, and that's about as much the law could muster against them. Gram's wishes were - sort of - granted.

That's friendship. That's rock n' roll. That's - bathos?

Yesterday in a coffee shop, I heard "Brass Buttons" playing in the background, another Parsons' tune that tows the line between pathos and bathos. It reminded me it's been too long since I listened to Grievous Angel, my favorite Gram Parsons album. That would be due to my CD snapping a few years ago in our move from Scotland to Arkansas. But Amazon Prime Music came to the rescue, and I was able to download Grievous Angel and listen to it three times in a row back to back. Honestly, could Emmlylou and Gram's voices weave any better?

(Apparently, Emmylou hated touring with Gram. Apparently, he was a bit of an asshole.)

Anyway, thank you, Starbucks, for reminding me of the fantastic rock fairy tale that is Gram Parsons, of the most interesting college class I've ever taken, and that love doesn't really hurt so bad in the end, once you find the good kind.

The Pajama Fairy

Fifi is screaming, "THE PAJAMA FAIRY WAS HERE!!!!" She's running down the stairs screaming to everyone, "GO CHECK YOUR BED!" Jaguar is wide-eyed, open-mouthed, leaning out of his bedroom door, excitedly telling me, "Majaba Bairy!" Lolly is squealing.

I began telling the story of Penelope the Pajama Fairy for about six years now. I came up with the idea after hearing a radio program about unique family Christmas traditions. One woman said when she was a child, her mother would clean all the sheets and make all the beds and give every child a new pair of pajamas on Christmas Eve, to wake up on Christmas morning with a clean start. My wee girls were super into fairies at the time, and thus the Pajama Fairy was born.

Every year, at some point on Christmas Eve when the kids are out, Penelope, the fallen tooth fairy, stops by with clean sheets (sometimes they are even brand new) and a new pair of pajamas for everyone to wear on Christmas Eve night. She makes the beds and lays the new pjs out for the kids to discover when they get home.

In the McFarlane house, the Pajama Fairy is a big deal. She might even be a bigger deal than Santa.

Fifi has been begging me to write the story down for a couple of years now. So this year, I did. Maybe one day I'll find an illustrator and eventually put the story in print.  It's still in draft form, but for now, enjoy a little McFarlane family tradition and feel free to adopt it and make it your own!

Everyone yell, "PAJAMA FAIRY!"

The Pajama Fairy

***

Penelope is sad.

She is a sad fairy.

Penelope is a tooth fairy. Or was.

She is sad, because she is not a tooth fairy anymore.

The thing is, she was not very good at being a tooth fairy.

For one, she was always getting lost. 

One time the address on the Tooth Pick-Up List said 201 North Walnut Street.
Penelope got mixed up and went to 201 South Walnut Street.

Instead of collecting Jonah Rodriguez’s bottom front incisor, she returned to Toothtown, Fairyopia with grumpy old Mr Pollock’s false teeth that were soaking in a jar next to his bed. She thought she’d won the jackpot with all those teeth!

Luckily for Jonah, his grandma discovered the tooth still under his pillow the next morning and replaced it with a coin of her own. She was unhappy with the tooth fairy though.

Unluckily for Penelope, the Toothtown’s legal council, Molar, Molar & Smith, had to settle the case in court when Mr Pollock sued over his “stolen” teeth.

Another thing is she was always running late.

Once she was a whole day late. Eden Martin woke up the next morning expecting a coin under her pillow and found her tooth still there. She cried all day and stopped believing in tooth fairies at once.

Penelope got in BIG trouble for that one.

Finally, she is always counting money wrong.

The worst time was when Penelope accidentally gave Elizabeth McDonald two coins and had no money left for Ollie Baker.
She left Ollie an acorn instead with a note explaining the mix up. Ollie decided tooth fairies were not worth the trouble and told his whole kindergarten class to stop leaving  teeth under pillows. That unbalanced the entire National Tooth & Trust’s fiscal year budget.

And this is why the Board of Directors finally fired Penelope.

And this is why Penelope is sad.

You see, the reason Penelope is always getting lost and running late and losing money is because Penelope’s true calling is not collecting teeth.  Penelope’s real talent is fashion design. Pajama fashion, to be exact.

When Penelope should be checking the daily Lost Tooth Alert System  for collection assignments

or studying the maps of neighborhoods (to make sure she stops at the RIGHT houses)

or learning how to count out the correct value of coins per tooth in math class

Penelope is doodling frilly nightgowns or practicing new stitches or calculating how many yards of fabric it takes to make a pajama set.  Despite her mistakes in counting coins, she is very good at counting inches and centimeters.

Penelope was not a good tooth fairy.

But she is good at other things.

It’s also worth noting that Penelope is not sad because she got fired.

Penelope is sad, because she loves the children.  Penelope has a good heart.

When she thinks of Eden and Jonah and Ollie and Elizabeth, a tear slips down her cheek. She will never see them again.

Or will she?

Penelope has an idea!

Penelope quickly starts to sew.
She knows that Eden loves spaceships, and Ollie loves cats.
She knows Jonah’s favorite color is purple, and Elizabeth likes polka dots.

She knows which children like fleece and which ones like satin. 

She knows who prefers nightgowns, and who likes pajamas with feet.

Lovingly, Penelope designs and sews each of the children a very special, unique pair of pajamas.

It takes her all year to get everything just right.

Finally, it is Christmas Eve.  Penelope is ready. She gets special permission from the Fairy Transport Office to view the neighborhood maps again. She wants to make sure she goes to all the right houses.

While Eden is shopping with her mother for last minute gifts, Penelope slips through the window to deliver the spaceship nightgown.

While Jonah is having Christmas Eve lunch with his grandma, Penelope lays a new pair of purple fleece pajamas on his bed. (She even made the bed for him.)

While Ollie is driving around looking at Christmas lights with his family, Penelope drapes the cat footsie pajamas over his desk chair.

While Elizabeth is in the kitchen peeling potatoes with her dad, Penelope folds the polka-dotted satin pajamas on top of the laundry pile.

With each pair of pajamas, Penelope also leaves a note apologizing for all the tooth mistakes of the past.

Penelope flies back to Toothtown, Fairyopia, and waits.

The children are all so surprised! They each read the notes as they put on their new pajamas.

Penelope’s heart beats fast and a smile spreads across her face as

Eden starts believing in fairies again.

Jonah’s grandma forgives the tooth fairy.

Elizabeth placed her extra coin under her pillow with a note that said “RETERN TO SENDER”.

Ollie promises to tell all the kids in his class to trust tooth fairies again AND to start believing in “Pajama Fairies” too.

Now Penelope has children all over the world who believe in her.
She spends all year making pajamas and delivers each pair on Christmas Eve.

Penelope has found her true calling.

Penelope is happy!
She is a happy fairy!

Penelope is not a tooth fairy anymore, but this is okay.
Penelope is now who she was always meant to be.

A pajama fairy!

The American Sailor

I miss you, dear blog. I apologize for the time I've been away, but I've been busy and tired.  Perhaps a wee short story will cheer you up and make up for our lost time together?

The American Sailor

If Ma and Da only knew... Maisie thought to herself as she brushed a thin layer of brown mascara over her translucent eyelashes. She was going to meet him again tonight, and if she could have her way, every night after.  He was so different from all the other boys she knew; he was a real man, a confident, handsome, exciting man. He had made her feel exciting too, and the exhilarating flush she felt when he had held her hand earlier that day made her feel tingly and guilty and alive all at once in a way she could only describe as delicious.

Ma would never approve, of course.  Girls who went out with the American sailors were slappers.  Da certainly wouldn’t approve; he’d have that man’s guts for garters if he knew who she was meeting, and where! Maisie knew a few of the girls who went out with sailors and had always looked down her nose at them.  But Robert was different. She was different.  She wasn’t looking for the “good time” those other girls were, and she felt in her heart that neither was Robert.  They were both looking for the same thing: true love.  There was no question about it for Maisie; this was it, the real thing, he was The One.

She knew meeting with him without Ma and Da finding out would be tricky.  They were devout Catholics, Da especially.  Maisie wasn’t allowed to go to the pictures or the dancing.  It was fate that she even met Robert at all.  They’d met at the newsagents while she was getting the paper for Ma and smokes for Da.  The rain had washed the snow off the pavement into brown and grey clumps and then refrozen. Da’s arthritis had been playing up too much for him to take the treacherous walk himself, but Maisie enjoyed getting out for a solitary walk so was quick to accept the chore. 

While she was paying Mr Watt for her sundries, the sailor in his starched blue uniform was reading the front page headlines of the Telegraph.  Suddenly, he had laughed out loud a big hearty guffaw.  Startled, she looked up at him, and he met her gaze.  The moment electrified her.  They stared into one another’s eyes for a few seconds, their souls becoming acquainted.  Still laughing, still holding her gaze, he pointed at the paper to the word “ironmongery” and laughed some more.  “Iron-mongery.  Sounds like somethin’ outta Shakespeare, don’t it, miss?”  Maisie didn’t get the joke, she just blushed and looked away.  Her pink cheeks and ginger hair caught his attention, and he teasingly remarked, “You’re as pretty as a peony, when you blush like that.  I’m Robert.  What’s your name, Red?”

Maisie could have died under the disapproving scrutiny of Mr Watt, glaring at her over his bifocals while handing over her change.  She felt suddenly very hot under her thick white coat despite the icy gusts blowing over the Clyde.  She whispered, “I’m Margaret” and quickly hurried out the door.  Robert chased after her, tossing the paper back onto the counter. 

“Wait! Can I walk you home?  These sidewalks are too slippery for a little thing like you to be walking around on by yourself.”

Maisie only lived around the corner, but her father would have been scandalized to see her carrying on with one of the Americans like that, and in broad daylight too.  So Maisie, peering over her shoulder to check Mr Watt couldn’t see, turned down a different street and allowed this handsome stranger to walk with her.

Robert was carefree, chivalrous, and charming.  He kept calling her “Red” even after she insisted on being called Margaret – or at least Maisie.  Each time he responded with, “Whatever you wish, Red,” which made her blush all over again. “I like to make you blush,” he chided. “You’re as pretty as a peony when you blush like that.” The rain was coming on again and the spits of ice brought a deeper rose to her cheeks and a sting to her eyes, shining the green irises like an emerald.

Maisie allowed him to walk her three blocks up the street and then one block down another before confessing, “I’d better go the rest of the way myself.  Da doesn’t approve of me talking to the boys.”   

“Then would he approve of you talking to a man?” That’s when he took her hand.  The sensation of his warm, rough palm lightly clasping her cold tiny white fingers was intoxicating and poured all over her body like a warm shower.  She of course blushed again, but this time with rapture. 

“I could meet you tonight.  At the chapel.  For mass.  I know it’s not anything, maybe it’s not what you do but --”

“I’ll be there.  What time?  Where?”

“Seven thirty. Saint Mary’s, over there.  I always sit in the second-last row up the back.”

It felt like sinning - gloriously, thrillingly sinning - to be getting dolled up for a date at the mass. Ma and Da would never think anything of it, Maisie attending an extra mass on a Saturday; they’d in fact be proud as peacocks of her piety.  She would just have to be subtle, lest any of the neighbours should notice and talk. It was blasphemous really, using God to meet a boy – a man, rather – but strangely she did not feel guilt.  Or at least not enough guilt to repent of.  If anything, the glimmer of guilt she felt only added to the overall excitement.  At any rate, she told herself, it was to a righteous end; she would one day be Robert’s wife, there was no question about it.

She tucked her blusher back into her handbag.  With her comb, she brushed out her red curls and pinned back the sides.   Her unruly red hair was a constant affliction to her, but Robert had spoken of it as if it were beautiful – “pretty as a peony”, she repeated to herself over and over.  Years of being called “Ginger” had resulted in detestation of her looks, but in one afternoon, Robert had reversed all of that.  In the reflection she didn’t see a Ginger anymore, but a Peony.  Her cheeks pinked up again, and set her body on fire.  She put down the comb.  Turning to inspect her figure side-on in her modest chapel dress, she imagined him watching for her to arrive, waiting in the second-last row, and in the mirror, Maisie crossed herself prettily and practiced an alluring genuflection.

Teatime was unendurable.  Maisie’s father was in a poor spirit because of his pains and the weather and kept pounding his fist on the table and damning everything. 

“Damn spoon!”

“Damn Yanks!”

“Damn bloody Tories!”

“Damn broken chair!”

“Damn bloody sodding Proddies!”

Maisie’s mother, as was her way, spent the meal trying to placate her husband with more totties, more tea, more agreeing nods and tuts, more hand pats.  Maisie couldn’t eat, and with her da’s crabbit mood, she worried she’d be asked to stay home and help cheer him instead.  She did her best to swallow a few mouthfuls so as not to raise any suspicions, and nodded and tutted in with her mother to keep everyone at relative peace. Finally, the church bells rang for seven o’clock, and Maisie was excused to get ready for mass.  She buckled her freshly polished shoes – praying no one would question why now on such a dreich day she had attended to such a detested chore – and pulled her white coat over her shoulders.  She surreptitiously surveyed her image in the dark living room window and let herself out the front door.

Snow was falling again, this time with heavy, plucky snowflakes, that rested on her coat and hair and eyelashes without melting.  The night was magical.  Romantic.  She felt like one of the lassies in a Jane Austen book she’d read in school. The chapel windows in the distance glowed in the dark night through the rapidly falling snowflakes like a choir of angels calling her home.  Inside, her sailor would be waiting for her.  She quickened her pace, growing unable to bear the separation a second longer.

At the chapel, Maisie shut her eyes, breathed in deeply, and pushed open the door.  Trying to appear nonchalant, she coolly surveyed the chapel for her sailor, starting first in her second-last row up the back.  She couldn’t see him.  She dipped her finger in the holy water, crossed herself absently, and slid into the pew.  She was early after all, she reminded herself. 

She had to control every muscle in her body not to turn around every few seconds to check the door.  She allowed herself a cursory glance once every two minutes, which was torture.  She removed her coat, feeling the beads of sweat prickling on her arms.  Her face flushed.   She peered over her shoulder at the door.  She waited.  Her stomach gurgled; she realized she was starving.

The organ began to play.

Her feet were heavy and her legs were thick as she trudged through the glistening snow back home. She tried to remember something about the mass to relay to her parents, but she had missed the entire service, checking the door every minute until the very end.  Her stomach was empty and cramping.  The cold wind burned.  She pulled her coat around her throat.  The snow had stopped falling; the night was vacuous, mute.  Involuntarily she continued to search the empty streets for Robert’s blue uniform.  Maybe he thought she’d said eight thirty.  Maybe he went to the wrong chapel. Maybe he’d been in an accident.  Maybe he’ll turn around the next corner in a frenzy and run to her, apologizing for the mistake and beg for her forgiveness, explaining about the terrible circumstances that had kept him away from her.  But all hope eluded her once she reached the front steps of her house.  One last time, she searched up and down the street for him, then let herself in the door, resisting the tears until she was safely in her bedroom, where she cried tormented until overtaken by sleep.

She didn’t even know his last name.  He didn’t know where she really lived. Over the next two days, Maisie searched for any excuse to get out and walk up and down the streets and around the newsagents.  Robert was nowhere.  Any time she spotted a sailor in blue uniform, she lost her breath for an instant.  How can this be? How could he do this to me?  Surely something has happened to him. Her imagination led her to all sorts of possible conclusions. He’d been shipped out.  He’d gotten the time or place wrong and thought she had stood him up.  But the worst conclusion, the worst one of all, the one she knew in her deepest, most anguished depths was the truth but could not, would not, acknowledge, was that he did not love her.  She had been a plaything to him, just like all the girls were to the Americans; he was just like the rest of them.

On the third day, Tuesday, it rained.  Maisie felt the rain was an embodiment of her own inner turmoil and greeted it miserably.  She did not leave the house once that day but brooded at the window watching the rain splash in puddles forming along the pavement.  The snow turned to blocks of grimy brown slush along the streets.  Wretchedly, she blamed herself for her misfortune.  

Blaspheme against God’s Holy Church, and this is what you get. The beautiful pure snow tarnished with sin becomes a heap of filth, she thought poetically, and wrote the words in her private diary. Never again, she vowed, and in a derisive show of righteous passion, she drew an elaborate cross and nailed the name ‘ROBERT’ to it.

Several rainy weeks passed. Though her heart still ached, the painful sting of Robert’s slight had eased.  Maisie felt older, a new possessor of sad wisdom, and with renewed zeal, intensified her focus on heavenly matters.  Robert was never far from her thoughts, but she accepted this thorn in her flesh as rightfully deserved punishment. She concentrated diligently on her lessons at school, helped her mother complete household chores without complaint, responded to her father’s cantankerous demands with a patient smile and attended confession twice weekly. Her soul was healing.

One morning, she awoke to bright sunshine peeking past her window curtains.  She grinned. The sun is a metaphor.  The clouds of my heart have parted and the beams of heavenly light shine down, she wrote in her diary, of which pages and pages had been filled since that day at the window. Feeling light and airy, she trotted down the stairs to make tea and toast for breakfast and have a wee blether with her ma and da.

“I’m oot ae bloody smokes,” her Da grumbled, as she poured his tea for him. “Maisie, hen, oot ye go and get your ole da some smokes, will ye, hen?” Feeling obliging and good-natured, Maisie consented.  It would be the first time in weeks she would visit the newsagents again, but this morning she had turned over a new leaf and nothing could ruin her newfound cheerfulness, not even a visit to the cursed newsagents.  She slipped on her coat, and traipsed out the front door, down the steps and along the pavement to the shop, almost inclined to join the spring birds with a merry whistle.

Mr Watt looked over his glasses at her as she pushed the cigarette pack across the counter to him.

“That sailor been asking fae ya,” he mumbled, unhappily. 

Maisie froze.  Fury seized her, followed by uncontrollable delight churned with guilt.  He’d been here?  All this time, he’d been here, asking for her?  She realized an unstoppable grin was spreading across her face, betraying her to Mr Watt, but then, was that a faint flicker of a smile on his face too?  She thanked him for the cigarettes (“Doan’t thank me!”) and rushed out the door.

See him again, she must.  But how?  When?  Mr Watt knows.  Maybe he...?  She was lost in the many calamitous questions spinning around in her mind.  Distracted by these tumultuous thoughts, Maisie never saw the steel pole until she had strode right into it, head first.

“Hey, Red, take it easy on that thing, what’d it ever do to you?”

Maisie looked straight up in surprise and right into Robert’s teasing hazel eyes.  She rubbed her forehead.

“Been wondering where you been.  I’ve been hoping I’d see you again.”

Maisie was speechless.  No, furious.  No, indignant.  All she’d wanted for weeks was a moment like this to occur – perhaps without the pole incident – and now here it was, and all she wanted to do was run.  So she did.

“Maisie, wait!” Robert shouted after her.  He sprang into a jog and caught up with her.  “Maisie, Maisie, stop, wait up!”

Maisie spun around, nearly knocking Robert off balance.  “You! You! How dare you!” she cried, aware she was about to make a scene but powerless to control herself.

“Maisie, I--”

“You never came!  You said you’d be there, and you never came! And you never came back here, tae the shop, you just never – do you think I’m – what do you think I’m – I was just going tae – I – I have feelings!” she screamed, tears running over her nose and lips, hot and infuriated and humiliated, conscious she was attracting stares.

“Maisie, are you talking about not meeting you at mass? Maisie, you couldn’t possibly think we could get back over the water in all that weather that day, did you?  The weather was awful that week.  Just as soon as it cleared, I came back, but you were nowhere to be found.”

They had gathered a crowd.  Wee old biddies whispered curtly about ole John’s wee lassie carrying on with the sailor, shaking their heads and wagging their bony fingers at each other. Maisie could not have been more shamed or terrified, not to mention confused, than she felt standing there in the street, the centre of unwanted gossip, before a man she both hated and loved fiercely all in one great miserable moment.  What would her father say when he hears about this?

Robert turned to the crowds of busybodies and said in his booming, American drawl, “Y’all got nothing better to do than watch a couple of young sweethearts have a lovers’ quarrel?”  The old women gasped at his Yankee impropriety and sauntered away, whispering to one another reproachfully.

Maisie’s forehead was throbbing.  She touched the painful bump that was growing larger and avoided Robert’s gaze.  She felt foolish yet moved that Robert considered her his sweetheart. And it really had been snowy, maybe it wasn’t possible to get the ferry back over from Holy Loch like he said.  She peered at him from under her brow.

“Can I please hold your hand again, Red?”

Softened, she shyly held out her hand, and he took it into his and wrapped it around his arm. “Let me walk you all the way home this time, and let me meet your pop.  Those old fishwives are probably there already anyway, telling him all about me,” he said, smiling.    Maisie nodded uneasily, but she knew he was right.  Besides, she’d have to introduce him to her parents some day if she was ever to become Mrs...

“What’s your last name?” she asked suddenly.

“Martin.  Lieutenant Junior Robert Daniel Martin.”

Dragons and Skaters and Whatnot

When I was in ninth grade, I had a friend who wanted to be a comic book writer.  Jeff was a junior and planned to move to California after high school to work with his comic book writer hero (whose name I of course did not recognize or remember).  At the time, Jeff was working on his own comic book starring all of his skater friends (I hung out with the skaters, ha), and he made me into the character Bounce who could manipulate gravity.  I took a proverbial page out of his proverbial book and wrote my own extremely terrible comic book, making myself into the sea queen Lorisia, because apparently as far as I knew, comic books had sea queens.

All this is to say that is the closest I've ever gotten to knowing anything about anything regarding comic books. That and the fact that our skater friends watched a lot of anime.  And that's the closest I ever got to knowing anything about anime.

So terrible segue from that little anecdote into today's October Dress Project and this shirt that I found at Goodwill.  It has a silver embroidered dragon on the front breast and on the back, like I'm totes into anime or or dragons or something.

I feel like a biker or a goth or something alternative in it.  Although with The Dress and brown flats, I probably don't look like any of those things.  That hasn't stopped Scott from teasing me about it all day though.

End scene.

The Spider In the Doll's House

One thing you might know about me is that I am deathly afraid of spiders. Beyond arachnophobic.

At least I used to be.

There was a time in the very recent past that I would cry if I saw even a teeny tiny spider crawling on my ceiling. I used to shake out my shoes before putting them on, and pulling boots out of storage after a warm season gave me palpitations. I once sprang out of my bedroom crying, tripping over a wooden beam and slicing my knee open because there was a spider on my bedspread. I once had to call the neighbor to come over and kill a spider for me because Scott was at work. I once LITERALLY jumped onto a businessman's lap on the train because a spider had crawled onto my handbag. (Probably made his day.) I was so afraid of spiders that I couldn't even get near enough to one to kill it. If there was a known spider in my house, I could not sleep until it was dead. I had nightmares about flying spiders. Ugh, saying that word over and over is actually freaking me out a little right now.

Before I got married, I had daily panic attacks because my best friend's house, in which I was staying for a month between my apartment's lease running out and moving to Scotland, was infested with all kinds of spiders - big, black, hairy spiders, little skinny brown spiders, black widows, brown recluses - and even approaching the front door of that house would cause my throat to close up and I could barely breathe. I'm not sure I actually slept for a month prior to my wedding, and it wasn't wedding jitters that were keeping me awake. It was the six or seven spiders I saw daily in that little house.

But in the past two years, I have improved significantly. It started with killing teeny spiders. Like the little practically microscopic ones. I'd take one of Scott's biggest, most sturdy shoes (brogues usually did the trick) and smash them dead. Then with half a roll of toilet paper folded up so I couldn't feel the creepy crawly with my fingers, I could clean it up. Anything bigger than a pony bead was still Scott's territory.

I got braver and learned to kill even kind of slightly bigger spiders. I knew by this point I was moving back to Arkansas, land of venomous black widows and brown recluses - not to mention harmless but evil-looking wolf spiders - and would simply have to learn to kill these beasties before they killed me (or my kids). I got really brave. By the time I moved back to Arkansas, I had overcome my phobia of spiders and now I simply hate them. I can kill them now, even big ones. If they are small and of the harmless nature, I can even allow them to coexist in my home - as long as they don't crawl around too much or get up in my personal space. We have some spiders who have taken up residence in a few corners of our home and have been very effective in killing mosquitoes. I've learned to live harmoniously with some of these guys. I'm officially no longer arachnophobic.

To prove this, we even allowed a HUGE (I mean freaking HUGE) garden spider to live in our backyard for a few weeks. However, it was interfering with our kids being able to play freely in the backyard and with actual sadness and regret (actual regret!), we had to give it the old death squash. (It was EW. I mean EW. It was freaking huge.)


But I am currently still shaking, and my heart is still pounding over what just happened.

Scott is out at an awards ceremony at work tonight, so I'm home alone with the kids. I told the girls to go get their pajamas on, while I put Jaguar to bed. Suddenly, the two girls came barrelling through the house SCREAMING and crying.

"A SPIDER! A SPIDER! IT'S ENORMOUS! IT LOOKS LIKE A BLACK WIDOW!" they screamed, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Okay! Okay! Calm down!" I could feel a little terror welling up in my chest, because even if I'm not totally arachnophobic anymore, I still hate the wee buggers. Especially black widows. I put on my tennis shoes and grabbed one of Scott's sturdy shoes from the shoe rack.

"Tell me where it is," I instructed Fi.

She told me it was on the top level of the doll's house. I crept into their room, and from the door could see what they were screaming about. It was no black widow.

"HOLY CRAP," is about all I could say.

Black legs danced around on a creature as big and black and hairy as a tarantula. It wasn't walking away but was moving its legs like it was stuck. The legs were thick and hairy-looking. Each leg looked about three or four inches long. How on EARTH did that thing get in here?!

How the FECK am I going to kill this fecker?!, I thought wildly. "GRAB ME A GLASS CUP." I said to Fi, trying to keep my composure. Shrieking, she ran to the kitchen.

"None of them are big enough!" she wailed. She was right. Oh my STARS, she was right. So I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a large cereal bowl. It might be big enough. I would trap it under that bowl until Scott got home. Somehow. Oh heavenly gracious, PLEASE DO NOT LET THAT SPIDER RUN! Wanting to pass out, I took the cereal bowl back to their room and crept closer to the doll's house.


Let me pause for suspense.


Feel the terror with me. Let's all imagine catching a bloody tarantula with a cereal bowl.


Do you feel it? Is your skin crawling? Is your stomach churning? Do you feel your intestines twisting?

Now. Imagine this.

As I approached the doll's house, I burst out laughing, maniacal laughing.

It was no tarantula.

It was a fringed trumpet noisemaker, being blown around by the ceiling fan.


I have never been so relieved. I also promptly allowed myself the freak-out that I'd been bottling up for the sake of my children. I threw that evil party toy in the trash and will never look at them the same way again.

I still don't think any of us will sleep very well tonight.

Kindergarten Concerns: A Fairy Tale

Lolly's a little uncertain about starting kindergarten next week. So I told her this story.


Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Lolly. She was getting ready for her first day of kindergarten. She was a little frightened. What if she didn't make any friends? What if her teacher didn't know her name? She didn't know how to read or add yet. She decided she didn't want to go to kindergarten after all. She hid her new Pikachu backpack and all her new school clothes under her bed.

The day before school started, Lolly said to her mummy, "I'm NOT going to kindergarten tomorrow."

Her mummy said, "But don't you want to go to school to learn to read and add?"

"NO!" she shouted. "I'm not going to kindergarten and that's THAT!"

The next morning, Lolly stayed in her pajamas. Her big sister Fifi ate her breakfast, put on her new school clothes and pretty new backpack, and got ready to go to school.

Lolly said, "I'm NOT going with you."

Her mummy sighed and said, "If you REALLY don't want to go, then you can stay home." Her big sister left without her.

Lolly played all morning, happy that she didn't have to go to school. After a few hours, she said, "I'm going next door to play with my best friend Brayden."

"But Brayden is at school," her mummy said.

Lolly frowned. Who was she going to play with? She realized she'd have to just play with her baby brother all day until Fifi came home.

Fifi came home after school full of excitement. She told Lolly all about her new teacher and all her new friends and how cool school is. She told her that Lolly's teacher had asked where she was and that all the kids wanted to meet her. "Don't you want to go to school with me tomorrow?" Fifi asked.

"NO! I'm not going to kindergarten and that's THAT!"

The next morning, Lolly stayed in her pajamas while Fifi got ready for school. Lolly played with her baby brother for a while, but he wasn't really very much fun. All he did was punch and throw toys. After a few hours, she said, "Can I go play at Emily's house?"

"But Emily is at school," her mummy said.

Lolly frowned. "Can I go play with Jonah?"

"Jonah is at school."

"Lila? Lilliana?" Lolly suggested.

"Both of them are at school too," her mummy said.

This is rubbish, Lolly thought. There was no one to play with. Not any of her friends and not her little brother. She was bored.

In the afternoon, her big sister Fifi came home. She said, "Lolly, your new teacher wants to meet you! All the kids in your class want to meet you too! Won't you come to school with me tomorrow?"

"NO! I'm not going to kindergarten and that's THAT!" she said, but a little less sure of herself now.

The next morning, Lolly stayed in her pajamas while Fifi got ready for school. She quietly watched Fifi leave and suddenly felt very lonely.

She imagined Fifi at school, learning all kinds of new things. She imagined her own class learning how to do new things like read or add. And then she got scared.

"Mummy! What if all the kids in my class learn how to read and add without me?!" she cried.

"Well, if you want, I can help you read and add here at home, so you don't get behind," her mummy replied.

Lolly sat with her mummy at the table, while they looked at the alphabet, but Lolly couldn't help but be worried. She didn't want all the other kids to learn to read without her. She wanted to learn to read, she really did. Later Fifi came home from school and told her all about how much fun school was and didn't Lolly want to go with her tomorrow?

Lolly didn't say anything. That night she couldn't sleep. She didn't want to miss out on learning to read and add. She quietly got her new Pikachu backpack and new school clothes out of their hiding spot under her bed. She thought about school all night.

The next morning, Lolly put on her new school dress. She said to her mummy, "Maybe I'll try school just this ONE time." Her mummy said that was fine. Feeling a little worried and a little shy, Lolly left with her big sister to go to school.

When she got to her new classroom, she saw the nicest looking lady she'd ever seen.

"Why, hello, Lolly! I'm your teacher, Mrs Holland. So nice to finally meet you!"

Her teacher knew her name!

"Why don't you sit at this little table with these children?" Mrs Holland said, leading her to a table with five other little boys and girls.

"Hi, Lolly! Want to sit with us?" the little boys and girls said, and they pulled out a little chair for Lolly to sit on.

That day was the funnest day Lolly ever had. They played Duck Duck Goose and did art crafts and learned about the letter D. Lolly already knew the letter D, as well as the letters she'd missed, A, B and C. She wasn't behind after all! They learned how to add 1 + 2, and Lolly already knew how to do that on her fingers too. She wasn't behind on adding either!

She ran home after school to tell her mummy what a fantastic day she'd had. She told her mummy all the wonderful things she'd done and all the friends she'd made and even showed her mummy a picture she had drawn.

"I LOVE kindergarten!" Lolly exclaimed.

"Do you think you'd like to go again tomorrow?" her mummy asked.

"Well, I'll maybe go again, just this ONE time," she replied. And she gave her mum a big cuddle.

The End.