10-foot tiara

A spankin’ new Minnesota Twins ball cap rides the head of the ex-nun formerly known as H.B. today.

Could be a ten-foot-tiara as far as I’m concerned.

Left the order in 1965, she said, because she wasn’t “good at obedience.”

Yep, doesn’t take more than a minute with her to know she’s got one helluva spine — and the world’s a better place because of it.  

Better because of her exuberance.  And her belief that miracles are everywhere.  In opera and the island of Manhatten and in every child’s fingerprint. 

Better because she’s got a back bone that’s both strong and sassy. 

Katharine Hepburn riding a skateboard regal.

We’re led to believe women are crowned by circumstance, and that’s true in part.  But I believe we’re each born with a tiara that has the potential to rise 10 feet in the air.

Only question is —

will we grow the spine to support it?

It’s never too late to leave the order.

smiley rolling pin

The best thing on the market to prevent frown lines today isn’t sold by the ounce.

It’s not made from copper, tea, coenzymes or hydroxy acids. 

Doesn’t come in a pump or a travel size — or a million different generations of a million different brands.

Nope. 

It’s been designed with no waste in mind, the authentic ones are made of wood, and best of all — it has the potential to be one the few lifetime purchases this world has to offer.

Quick question.  When was the last time your rolling pin saw the light of play?  Do you even have a rolling pin?

I’m convinced my Grandma Cookie’s creative, satisfying and very long life had something to do with the fact that she used her rolling pin every day for more than half of it.  That — and she was good with the pruning sheers.  But that’s a whole ’nother topic.

Think about it. 

A device in the 21st century that happily engages both hands, applies perfect pressure to the dough, and brings masterpieces to life.  

A swift and trusty rolling pin, full flour bin and a good brick of lard might just be the real Secret. 

Oh, I know it’s not fancy, but you gotta agree with me on this — if you’re lucky enough to have a good rolling pin, then you’re lucky enough.

And, if you’re lucky enough to have a good rolling pin and it’s stuck in the back of a drawer — well then —

You’re just stupid. 

bouncin’ with moxie

It’s come up more than a coupla times this week.

In more than a few different ways.

Go ahead and fall down 99 times —

But get up a hundred.

I have to admit, I am pretty good at getting up.  In fact, I’ve actually been told this more than a few times in my crash dummy life. 

One pronouncement was even put to music — ode to me ‘tubthumping’ on the double blacks.

“You know what I love about you? —

 ”You get knocked down — but you get up again.”

Yes I do.  Maybe a tiny bit worse for the wear, but always clutching a spangle. 

I thank the God who put moxie in my veins — and my butt.   Because it’s truly been my saving grace. 

You know, the great thing about moxie is that it gets better with age. 

Or maybe we just get better at stoking it. 

When I was younger I possessed a sure-footedness I thought would never leave me.  And that was probably true — if I would’ve made the comfort zone my lifetime residence. 

But once I struck out, sure ‘nuf, I started falling.  Hard.

And after the initial pain, most of it self-inflicted, ’twas moxie that got me up again.  Helped me get to the joy in the recovery.  And over time — seems like a long time —

Helped me arrive at the place today where —

I’d much rather die fallin than not tryin at all.

where there’s smoke

It started with a slight mumur as I was leaving the post office counter.

Not like whispering behind my back, mind you.  The speech was directed at me, though offered a tad tentatively.  Too soft to be understood, but loud enough to make me stop mid-stride, turn my head, find the source. 

The woman who spoke leans against the tall glass case display of DVD titles.  She shifts her weight, snickers nervously when our eyes meet.

“Hmmm?” my face implores.  She repeats herself, tossing her salt and pepper head to one side and giving another snicker.

“Your boots are hot.”

Knock me over with a feather.  Did she really just say that?

“Thank you,” I laugh, blushing and turning away. 

From the woman at the counter who just waited on me, ”Yeah, I noticed too.  Hot.”

“Thank you,” I laugh in both directions.  And then split.

Spotting a dreamy jacket in a shop window a few minutes later, I stop.  Holding it up for closer inspection, I’m interrupted by “ooh la la — those boots.”  I look into the smiling beautiful butternut face belonging to the spicy accent. 

She gives me a little shimmy, adding, “Now those boots are for me.”  Her co-worker’s right there with “oh yah, gotta have those.”

What is going on here?  Am I on candid camera?

“Thank you.  Yes —,” I’m laughing again, “well — thank you.”

In the next shop, I linger over a fresh looking sprig of a scarf no more than a moment before it happens again.  “I just gotta tell you — those boots are—”

Then, in unison with her co-worker — “Hot!”

Yahtzee! 

Next stop, shoes and bags.  Barely get my hand out of the holster to feel up a sweet pair of pink pumps, when —

“I’m admiring your boots,” she purrs.  “Hot.”

 From her smartly dressed sidekick, “Super sexy.”

By now I want to bow.  Throw a few kisses.  These things aren’t boots.  They’re rock stars. 

Then it hits me. 

I’m a veritable pied piper in patents with not a single male follower!

Is my smoke blowin’ up the wrong chimney? 

I’m standin’ there shakin’ in my boots for a cool minute when I see a man approaching.  Watching his face closely, I notice his eyes shift toward the floor in front of him. 

Down so far his eye brows just about crash into his nose.

Oui! Oui!  Mille fois oui!!!

green ball jets

There’s gotta be a word for it.

You know.  It’s kind of — an urge. 

An irrational and slightly wicked, possibly dangerous and incredibly ticklish urge.  

An irresistible feeling to go ahead and do that something you think you know better not to do.

It’s in the same vein as laughing in church or telling an off-color joke at a work function.  But much more — well, naughty.

Like what would happen if I didn’t wear pants to work naughty.  Or how much fun it would be to pinch the CEO’s ass and then push my boss into his line of sight naughty.

Maybe naughty isn’t quite what I’m tryin’ to say now that I think of it —

Hmmm — it’s really more thrill seeking in nature.  Comes from a place deep inside that is perhaps — adventure deprived.

The part of you that doesn’t get out much and really really needs a good pedal to the metal no holds barred joyride.

Think driving hands-free into a blazing miracle wearing nothin but green ball jets. 

This very minute.

Yah, that’s it.

But what’s the word for it?

snow be it

Fist-sized gossamer flakes falling from the sky on December 1.  

Picturesque.  

Same fantastical flakes blanketing your Easter basket on March 23. 

Grotesque.

A simple matter of perspective? 

I’m inclined not be too hasty with the “yeah, you betcha.” 

Sure, the equation for setting expectations starts out simple enough for us Minnesotans since we’ve only got two seasons:  ‘definitely could snow’ and ‘probably won’t snow’.

But this is immediately complicated when you realize that separating the season of ‘definitely could snow’ from the season of ‘probably won’t snow’ is a very blurry blustery line known as —

a blizzard.

And actually, there are two blizzards significant to the equation we might use to more accurately align expectations and be happier campers when it flippin flakes on our Easter Parades. 

You’ve got the ‘first’ blizzard — which could take place anytime in October but then again might not even hit in time to give you a white Christmas. 

And you’ve got the ‘last’ blizzard — which has been known to bury the May pole.

So you’ve got a mercurial white out where one might wish to find clear delineation — and we’ve yet to even factor in the more influential variables.  Things like human levels of immunity to cabin fever — or whether your glass leans full or empty.

I mean, hypothetically speaking, what if — after three or four days that hit 50 — I have my heart set on a warm and breezy walk to mass in my new spring trench?  And instead, I’m snapping the furry hood on a down jacket the sight of which I can no longer stand?

Am I smilin?  Am I singin?

— Suddenly sheepish after writing this, I can’t help feeling a sinking similarity between myself and my 6-year-old nephew who hesitated to get out of the car when I dropped him off at a friend’s birthday party because —

“What if I don’t like the cake?”

Yes, it’s complicated, unpredictable and probably not what we’re really in the mood for maybe 90 percent of the time. 

But, the beauty of life is simply this:

You can always find a way to enjoy the party — whether you like the cake or not.

the girl in the bathtub with me

 

While we bend down in body to the cross, we bend down in spirit to God.

Her questions are like radar — trying to fly her mind home.

“Who are you?”

“It’s Julie, Grandma.”

“Oh Julie, you’re the one who lived with me — to think I had you with me all that time.”

Feeling special, I answer, “yes, that was me.”

“And the girl in the bathtub with you — who is she?”

“That’s my sister, Jackie — you know Jackie.”

“Oh yes, she’s awfully good to me.”

“Yes she is,” I say, recalling the ways.

There’s Jackie driving up to the restaurant with Grandma riding shotgun.  I open the door to help her out and gasp at the white goo covering her face.  From the driver’s seat my sister reaches over with a soft bathroom towel and begins rubbing it away.  

“There.  No more moustache, Grandma.”

There’s Jackie wheeling Grandma like a movie star down the sidewalk, heading to the family reunion.  Grandma’s hair is perfect, she’s wearing hip new sunglasses and a shade of lipstick that matches her outfit. 

“Doesn’t she look pretty?  Take a picture.”

There’s Jackie taking on the establishment — god help them — because Kris showed up to paint Grandma’s nails and she was out of it.

“They’d like to drug everyone in this place because it’s easier for them.  But they’re not getting away with it with her.”

There’s Jackie — the heart, mind and muscle behind making sure Grandma Trudi is treated with dignity, remains connected to her loved ones, always feels included —

And is never left behind.

On this Good Friday, I bend down in body to the girl in the bathtub with me — and to the living Christ in her.

We adore you O Christ and we praise you —
Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

devil with the red pen

“You can’t write.”

She grips the pages in both of her dainty little hands, pushing them across my desk as she sits down. 

“I hired you because I thought you could write, and clearly —” pointing to the red lines with her french-manicured index, “you cannot write.”

Without a word, my shaking hand passes her the envelope. 

(— and the winner is —)

She rips it open and reads my resignation.

(me!)

“Well, this is going to be very inconvenient for me now.  But looking on the bright side — I definitely couldn’t afford to teach you how to write.” 

So there.  

Blessed by the red pen at 41, I quit.

Quit taking to heart everything that is said by others about my worth. 

Quit letting other people’s approval determine my truth.

And — quit beating myself up for quitting.

Because if I wasn’t a quitter —

Well, I wouldn’t be writing like this today. 

bare before bloom

Is it any wonder?

The coming of spring is a preparation like no other — reminding us with every breath that just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. 

What meets the eyes is dead and brown.  Bare to the bone. 

And yet.

We feel life moving beneath the surface.  Sense the change that is coming.  Smell the possibilities.

Sure, the pace is uneven.

We leap one step forward and then hobble two steps back.  Waking limbs tingle with pricks of pain.  And sometimes the sheer neverness and bleakness of it all breaks us in two.  Forces us to cry out, “gimme the epidural — NOW!”

And then.

Maybe we do get dumped on again — but hey, it melts overnight.  And maybe we do need to hang on to those gloves and that ice scraper — but hey, they have a way of disappearing just about the time they’re not needed anyway.

So we decide to let go a little bit and then a lot a bit.  Set it on the back burner.  Then throw it to the wind. 

And then.

In an instant, what was inside is suddenly outside.  Utterly and completely formed — more perfectly than we could ever imagine. 

And should we live to see a million springs, it is the spring of the present —

The life in this very moment — that will always amaze us most. 

why wait?

Last night it was Eddie Murphy in the bedroom with the candle stick.

And I’m not talkin game of Clue. 

I wake slightly amused, remembering I’ve got my annual exam this morning.  Is it possible there’s a connection between the black cohosh I’ve been taking and this suddenly star struck libido of mine? 

I add it to the list under the topic of “supplements.”

Then cross it out and make a new heading.

“Deficiencies.” 

How many moons has it been?  I’m not sayin. 

But I am countin.