Party, party, MIRACLES, and tape

My wonderful mama knew I wanted to have a garden brunch for my birthday. Too bad there are 4 inches of snow outside. But when I arrived Sunday morning, I walked inside to find the kitchen and living room filled with gerber daisies and garden decor. It was adorable.

And, so fun--three of my friends from high school, whom I haven't seen in years, showed up for the party. We spent all morning catching up. Krisde's baby boy is almost two, Maria is a nurse working at a research lab, and Laurel has her masters in Communicative Disorders. These girls are awesome.

THE FOOD was fantastic. French Toast souffle, topped with pecans and drizzled in maple syrup. Bite-size chicken salad sandwiches on home-made croissants. Spicy sausage-stuffed mushrooms. Vanilla yogurt and fresh strawberries, raspberries, and apples. Delicious orange juice! It was heaven.

All followed by....da-da-da-daaaaaa: Blueberry Sour Cream Torte from the Dodo. It was so, so yummy.

My brothers and sister and I hung out in James' 'studio' making techno music and then watched a movie before heading over to Dad's house.

My sister-who-was-just-married is turning 24 next week, so we had a duel cake-and-icecream-and-board-games party. There was the Happy Birthday Song, and then we lit the candles again and the second time shouted/screamed the lyrics with no meloday whatsoever (this is sort of a pseudo tradition that we started recently). I learned how to play backgammon, but Dad beat me everytime. I said good bye to Sis and her new hubby; they were getting up at 4 am to fly back to their new home in Texas.

I said goodbye to everyone, I love you.

And on the way home I had a terrible mishap, but I was very very blessed.

Cruising along HWY 40, listening to a GLEE knockoff of Journey songs, a very large deer--maybe it was an elk?--is suddenly racing down the center of my lane, directly in front of my 65mph (okay, maybe 70+mph) tiny little sports car.

I swerved and missed the deer, but fish-tailed out of control. I remember praying outloud, over and over.
Off the shoulder of the road, out into the ditch, and into a sink-hole of mud and snow. My last thought as I was flying through the air was, "This is going to hurt."

But it didn't. I didn't flip or roll the car {miracle}. I wasn't injured in any way whatsoever {miracle}. My car was unscathed, except for the loss of the front lisence plate {miracle}.

The Lord truly looks down upon us and watches over us. It was a big blessing that reminded me of His love.

My amazing family drove out and picked me up, and stood up for me when the Highway Patrol Officer, the Sherrif, and two deputies (that's four cops, folks) accused me of drinking, fleeing the scene of an accident, and being contemptive. Oh, man. I was standing in the snow and mud in my slippers, trying to catch my breath! Of course I was contemptive!

Anyway, the night turned into a good excuse for a much-needed daddy-daughter talk (maybe I'll post about the brilliant epiphany about love that we discussed).

I called-in the next day and instead of going to work, washed my car and gorilla taped the bumper into place. That tape is strong. It looks great on my car.

A very eventful weekend. All-in-all, a really great weekend. I know Heavenly Father is aware of what I'm feeling and thinking and trying to accomplish. And He's looking out for me--these experiences are bringing me closer to the person I hope to be.

Lesson learned: it is okay to have two major car issues within the 24 hours following a resolve to slow down and be more aware instead of running around like crazy.

Tow Away

I lost my voice the night before an audition. I was exhausted. I thought, I should just sleep until the matinee.
Kudos to me, I was brave and went to the audition and sang the best I could, regardless.
Still a somber feeling when you don't get called back.
So, I went to one of my favorite places in the world and prayed and contemplated life and boosted myself up and made some new goals about slowing down and making my life a little bit simpler.
Cue: Craziness and ensuing stress
I strolled out of the temple to find that, wow, I was in there longer than I thought. About two hours longer. I'm supposed to be at the theatre in 15 minutes!

So I raced to my apartment, parked right in front of the stairs (red curb), ran up the stairs, brushed my teeth, grabbed my makeup and shoes, ran back down the stairs and---

Wait, where's my car???

Turns out, they towed it away.
After acting like a CRAZY-LADY on the phone, I found my car.
And then I found myself riding alongside a nice towing-man, who had a mole the size of a peanut m&m on his chin, in his nice towing truck, which had my beautiful blue care tied up in the back. As he boasted about how fast he could load a car (I was seriously gone for 5 minutes), we drove to a local bank so I could pull a $163 cash ranson out of my account in exchange for the vehicle.
*sigh* So much for saving all that birthday money for a trip.

I made it to the show in the nick of time and performed my little heart out. Life goes on.

ps. the ultimate crappy part of this day: I looked down at my hand during act IV of the evening performance and noticed my very naked hand--the power ring my mom gave me on my 16th birthday, that I have worn every day since, was not there. It's gone. Gone.gone.
I'm sure I can find it online. I hope!

Pie Day

Before the show last night:

Matt: Hey guys, today is March 14th, Pie Day. After the show, we should go to Village Inn and have pie.

Me: That's a great idea!

An ensuing conversation about pie, Pie Day, and 3.14.

About five minutes into said conversation:

Me: Oh! Pi! That IS a great idea!

And it was. Delicious.

 

All the cast and crew had a lovely time.

I ate every last bite of the Triple Berry Pie, a la mode.





On Recording the Importances

I wrote this story a little more than three years ago. Interestingly, there have been many more importances that I have not recorded--particularly pertaining to the young man mentioned in the last segment. I do recall that I was very sad when I wrote this. But I have grown so very much since then; so I can only imagine what importances there are ahead of me. And I shall record them! I shall follow my lovely friend Kristen's lead and photograph my travels and adventures more diligently! Here is the story:


According to Hindu scripture, the world is created, destroyed, and recreated in a cycle of four epochs, or yugas. Mirroring mankind’s behavior, the earth descends from a golden, enlightened era to the lowest phase: the Kali Yuga. During Kali Yuga, rulers govern without sense. People deceive their neighbors and harbor unreasonable murderous thoughts. Even very young girls get pregnant during the Kali Yuga. Many Hindus believe this epoch began on February 18th, 3102 BC—the day Lord Krishna was mistaken for a deer and shot with an arrow as he meditated.



It took three scaffold-strikes to behead Mary I, Queen of Scotland. The first blow cracked her skull and the second split her shoulders apart. The third killed her, although her neck still clung to her body by a few strands of gristle. She wore a red chemise—exposed to the crowd when she was helped out of her black gown—and an auburn wig. She was executed on February 18th, 1587.



Seventy-one years before her execution, Mary’s first cousin once-removed, Mary I of England, was born on February 18th. She was known as Bloody Mary because she ordered the execution of hundreds of people. These controversial “Marion Persecutions” ridded England of the Protestant devout, so that England’s bond with Rome could reestablish.



February 18th, 1885: According to some, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was first published. According to others, the controversial book was published a year earlier. According to a third party, it was printed in January, not February. I have a copy of the book. It is not the first edition, but it is the same story.



Arch Oboler’s three-dimensional film Bwana Devil opened in New York on February 18th, 1952. It was the first 3-D, full-color, full-length film to play in America. The plot involved railway workers fighting off man-eating tigers. The critics tore the film apart, and it is not widely-known today. To Oboler, it was still an achievement. A mark.



Only once has snow fallen in the Sahara Desert, we think. It fell upon Algeria, for an hour and a half, on the 18th of February, 1979.



In 2006 (on February 18th), I wrote in my journal: “Saturday, late night. Kim stopped by to visit me after her show. We talked about honesty, real-ness in a character, how acting makes good singing and dancing. When you approach it without integrity, it’s like a performance through rose-colored glasses…But when it’s honest, it’s edgy, and has clarity—it’s sharp and new and could go anywhere—enthralling and committed. Recently, my life has been rose-colored, blurry, not really focused. With integrity, I can be vivid again. Who am I? What are my standards? Am I living up to them? I am now: Hallelujah!”



I broke up with Tyler Commons on February 18th, 2007. It was a mark in a record that is still being written.

Hairbrushes; a story written in 2007

The Seven-Eleven on the corner sells hairbrushes. And combs. For a dollar or so, any kid can have a brush.


The little Hispanic girl I tutored—years ago, for English vocabulary and writing—hid her face behind matted tangles of dull, black hair. It would fall onto her paper when she leaned down to write, veiling her pucker-lipped profile. She never touched it. Sometimes she wrote right over the top of the strands that dropped across her homework page. I began trading with her. For every Spanish word she could teach me, I brought her a trinket. Nail polish, elastics, a toothbrush, items sold at dollar stores. The first thing I bought her was a hairbrush.

They weren’t always widely-accessible. Comb sets with matching mirrors used to be precious gifts to new brides. My grandmother has a porcelain-handled brush (never to be used!) that sits atop an antique wardrobe next to her bed. Seeing it fills my mind with images of long nightgowns, lantern-lit bedrooms, a distinguished husband smiling at his wife as she combs her hair before bed.



My grandmother only uses the Phillips Light Touch-1 hairbrush, manufactured in France. “You can’t buy them anywhere, now,” she tells me as she takes a medium-sized brush out of the toiletry pantry (they’ve got a fair supply of toilet paper, hair dye, toothpaste, and hotel shampoos and conditioners). She gave me the brush, and I thanked her for it, and I use it. I didn’t tell her that the Taylor Maid store on Center Street still sells them, because she was very pleased to part with one of her dear brushes. I know about the stock at Taylor Maid because I buy one for my father (raised with my grandmother’s preferences) every Christmas. His hair is as long as mine, thinner. He wears the bristles out about three times faster than I do—I’m not sure how. He must brush oftener, which may advance the thinning.

Sometimes, when we lived in the house I grew up in, he would brush my hair for me. I loved this; he took his time, started at the ends, and gently, gently untangled any snarls. I always thought he could make my hair grow longer because when he finished, and put my hair in a ponytail, he twisted the elastic around my hair at the base of my neck—Mom always pulled the base of the ponytail up to the crown of my head. She pointed the difference out to me after I insisted that Dad knew more about my hair.

My mother always started at the crown of my head—she brushed my hair from the top down. I would wrap my arms around her waist, grab the back of her shirt, and she’d rip the brush down through my long hair. I screamed and cried and yelled at her, and she told me stories about what happened to little girls who didn’t brush their hair. One character had to chop all her pretty hair off because birds and mice started to make nests in her un-brushed locks.

By the time I was seven or eight, I did my own hair. I also started braiding my dad’s hair before he went to work, so that it would stay out of his face. I haven’t seen him wear a braid for ages, I just realized. Strange. Now, I style everybody’s hair. My roommate, for her wedding. My mom, for her Halloween costume. I cut my brother’s hair for school pictures, and I help my sister dye hers every month. And every once in a while, I’ll ask my sister to brush my hair while we sit and talk. There’s something nice about that.

Perspective

Reading through old stories I wrote for college classes, I came across a little gem about my nineteenth birthday. It amazes me that half a dozen years have passed since then; I’m the same girl, yet very different, too. I’ve grown into a deeper version of myself, you could say.


The most interesting thing about reading non-fiction written by one’s own self is this: unlike a diary, it is typically directed at an audience instead of the author. When I read this piece, I saw a refreshing portrayal of what I was thinking back then. That’s really helpful for me, because I have a hard time knowing what the heck I really want until I can analyze The-Events-Of-My-Life later (apparently, years later!).

This story was particularly enlightening because with a weekend full of WEDDING (another post about the blessed event to come later), I had a rough wrestle with regret about my most recent relationship. (It also happened to be my longest relationship, my favorite relationship, my most meaningful and best relationship, my first Great Love.) Then, I read this story and remembered that I have been really enamored with others before My Great Love, and—hopefully—some day I will love again.

So, here’s a little excerpt from a story about my freshman year at university. Enjoy.



I never hated my age more than the moment I found myself in a deserted classroom with Clay B______ for the second time. Unlike our first private rendezvous, we remained a safe distance from one another. He sat in a chair about five giant steps in front of where I was standing. After I delivered a shaky and only just memorized monologue from a play called Rose, an embarrassed moment of silence teetered between us. Finally, he spoke, “Jessica. You need to find a character you are capable of portraying honestly.”

I slid my teeth sideways and looked down; my red and white checked socks were peeking through multiple holes in the sides of my blue keds. Honestly. Honestly? I wanted to tell him that, honestly, I thought he was a crappy TA and an even crappier object of my affection. I sighed and looked up at him, at his twisty burnt-auburn hair. “Yeah, okay.”

“Jess,” and then he leaned forward and wringed his fingers gently together. Oh, I thought he was so sexy. I hauled my attention away from his hands and back to his words. “This woman is in her sixties. And she’s black.”

I laughed once and drew my shoulders around me. The corner of his mouth lifted. “So you need a character closer to your age,” he said.

“Okay. I can do that,” I nodded. Then he asked me a straight forward, direct question.

“So, how old are you?”

I could feel his eyes waiting. What did he call them? Ah, yes. He called his eyes penetrating. I was thinking about this conversation we had about his eyes and my eyebrows earlier in the semester instead of answering him. I decided to avoid the question. “Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Someone closer to my age. Okay.”

“Jess, how old are you?”

I felt precariously unbalanced on the cement floor. I mentally stuffed my age behind my back and—

“How old are you Jessica?”

I snapped my eyes up to meet his. “I’m eighteen,” my voice rang across the mirrored walls and fell hard on the floor in front of Clay. I lifted an eyebrow and silently dared him to say something.



Clay was the teacher’s assistant for an acting class during my first semester of college. I thought he was divine.

I’d wait outside his classroom in the late afternoons, pretending to be busy with homework or just finishing up a project with someone from class. He never called my bluffs, but instead stayed with me; we spent a few hours a week talking and flirting and laughing and discussing (serious, intellectual college-discussions).

I gathered the courage to suggest he go here or there with me. I brought him a snack from the cafeteria once, I think. He started poking my ribs and brushing the hair out of my eyes while we talked.

One afternoon after class, he swiveled his arm around mine and swung me toward the stairs. We walked down several flights, deep into the basement.

Into a deserted classroom.

Stood very close to each other.

Pressed up against the closed door.

I had never been kissed like that before.

And then, then!

Forehead to forehead, he employed my sworn secrecy and fed me a trembling, “I’m such a mess, Jess,” before kicking me out of the room.

Christmas and final exams came and he hadn’t given me more than half a nervous glance in class, let alone joined me on my usual bench. Still I hankered for him. He ignored me to save his job. He overlooked me in class.

“Who needs help to prepare for the final?” he asked. Another girl raised her hand, and then I did, too.

He wrote down the other girl’s name and gave her a half-hour appointment. “Anyone else?” he asked.

I raised my hand. He didn’t say anything, but looked around the classroom, as if he was checking to make sure he didn’t miss anyone.

I cleared my throat. “I need some help,” I said.



And that was how I wound up isolated in his authority once more, this time with him sitting with hunched shoulders, looking a bit ill at the thought that I was under-age…..

Me, at the brilliant age of eighteen. I was all-in-all a very happy girl.

Life is Sweet

Check out the amazing doughnut menu at the Dynamo Donut cafe in San Fransisco. Here's what I'd like to try the next time I'm in their neighborhood:

Others that are totally original: the "Bitter Queen" with candied grapefruit and the "Bacon Maple Apple," which includes bits of real bacon on top of maple frosting.
I've been pleasantly reminded that life is oh-so-sweet this last week.
I started searching for the perfect doughnuts after one of my employees brought me a cake doughnut for breakfast. Such a thoughtful surprise.
After working out with my roomy, we recovered from our rigorous exercise by having a good heart-to-heart over a box of Nilla Wafers con glasses of WHOLE milk. Delish.
Yesterday, my sister(2) flew in from Texas with her hubby-to-be. We had Nana's famous cream soup and fresh homemade bread at Nana's house. She looks so happy ( my sister; although, Nana looked fairly cheery, as well). And she's tan. And her hair color is great right now. She's definately going to be a beautiful bride this weekend!
After dinner, I spoke with sister1 on the phone. We discussed the much-anticipated menu at my BIG BIRTHDAY BRUNCH next week. I cannot wait to eat that meal, it will be yummmy. As usual, sister1 made me laugh my pants off. Our interesting conversation about her visit to the doctor ended on this note:
Me: Already laughing: "They made you pee and then filled your bladder up with something else?"
Her: "And when they were finished, I had to pee again, so bad--but you have no idea how warm your pee usually is. It felt so freaky weird to pee cold."
Me: Laughing hysterically.
I'm off now to make dessert with a blind date. Excited to try the Banana Pudding recipe I found on the cutest blog: the Baker Chic. I like all of the sweet things that are popping up these days!

Surprises

Did I mention I have amazing friends? This is my fabulous bestie KRISTEN. She surprised me and came to the show this weekend.  She has a delightful blog about Truth.
After the show, we took a midnight jog over to Wal Mart and purchased 4 gallons of Mount Olympus spring water. {Support this local business! They are awesome!}
Then I cut her hair while we watched Fried Green Tomatoes. A lovely, lovely evening.

Saturday Morning

I love my big, white fluffy comforter and down-filled pillows. I woke up sans-alarm this morning with poofy, curly hair--I should fall into bed right after a shower more often.

Last night, I had a great time at In-N-Out with three girls from the mish. They came to the opening night of An Ideal Husband and then we reminisced over milk shakes and animal-style bugers. So wonderful to see them. Grateful they understand and care about that special time in my life. And man, I love animal-style. So much fun.

I have the best friends. In the last month, they've made me dinner, met me for lunch, set up double-dates, traveled to family parties, spent the weekend up at the cabin, and supported all my artistic endeavors. What would a girl do without such fabulous friends? 

catching-up

This is my beautiful sister.

She tells phenomenal stories.
I just got off the phone with her--she described her surprise trip to the hospital yesterday and the ensuing CT scan she endured (she's gonna be okay). I tried to keep my horrified gasps and delighted guffaws muffled behind my computer screen at work; I need hardly tell you, I was entertained.
She's the girl, at parties, found in the midst of a laughing, crying swarm of story-junkies strung-out on her every word. Listening to her is addicting.
She uses words that spring the story upon me, so that the event jumps up around me as the characters vividly take shape in my imagination--no, my memory. It's like I was there, the pictures of these people are so clear. This, of course, is attributable to her uncanny ability to mock their body language and mimic their speech.
She's just a delightful person. So nice to talk to her on the phone today.