Three Cool Things

1. I'm going to meet the Sartorialist tomorrow. Yes, THE Sartorialist. The one who took this picture. Talk about fashion-brilliance pressure. Eek!
2. Sarah and Dave make me happy. Congrats, guys!
3. This movie has the potential to rock my nostalgic little world:

That is all. Carry on.

With Rings on Her Fingers....

I met three women yesterday. All remarkable and engaging and sweet. We were waiting for our ten little preschool terrors to arrive when conversation shifted to ring fingers. Left hands. Each of them sported an impressive sparkler.

I had nothing to contribute. Nothing. No insightful anecdote, no opinion. I just oohed for a moment and smiled as they talked about diamond settings and proposals. I wasn't bitter, uncomfortable or envious. It's just so outside of my reality that I felt my musings would be coming from a completely unqualified source.

Although I did have the amusing thought that it would have been a great day to decorate my hand with something like this:

Should marriage be in my future, my only ring dream is that Mr. Awesome choose something rather lovely that will make him want to hold my hand for approximately forever. The end.

(I think UP got to me. I'll get over the mush shortly. Promise.)

YouTube Tuesday: Love Stories

A Short Love Story in Stop Motion



Motion City Soundtrack - Fell In Love Without You

New musical discovery. (Where have I been?!)

P.S. There's a piano on the beach. Sigh.



Summer Nights - In Sign Language

Best karaoke duet song ever. Sounds like summer. A really fun, sad summer. Only with Travolta is this combination possible.

Kissing is Dangerous. And Other Tales.

Kiss of Deaf

(This was already discussed at work. So if you work with me, this may seem repetitive. And, yes, you deserve all the credit for the link, Kathleen.)

I used to call my mom's best friend Aunt Mom's-Best-Friend. Okay, so she had a real name that followed "aunt," but this blog is about me, not her. Anywho, Aunt MBF is married to Uncle MBFH (Mom's-Best-Friend's-Husband), a man she didn't marry until she was in her 40s. So clearly he was amazing. And worth the wait.

Uncle MBFH has a way with kids. He asks the right questions, engaging you as if he's genuinely interested in your life. But he also knows how to embarrass you. With two carefully chosen words.

I showed up for dinner one year with curly hair (I told you I wanted to be Amy Grant). His response?

"You know what causes curly hair, right?"

"Uh, no." (Thinking: Perm solution.)

"Excessive kissing."

I turn bright red. As per usual.

This is his explanation for everything. If you do well in school, dye your hair, break a limb, exhibit some sort of quirky behavior, it's a consequence of excessive kissing. It's a foolproof way to make a kid/teenager/me squirm. Because you really don't want your parents' friends speculating about such things. Whether the accusation is true or so far from reality (the wise assumption in my case), it doesn't matter. It's just plain awkward. And hilarious.

Well, excessive kissing was in the news this week. Apparently you have to worry about more than your hair going curly.

A young Chinese woman was left partially deaf following a passionate kiss from her boyfriend.

The 20-something from Zhuhai in Guangdong province arrived at hospital having completely lost the hearing in her left ear, said local reports.

The incident prompted a series of articles in the local media warning of the dangers of excessive kissing.

"While kissing is normally very safe, doctors advise people to proceed with caution," wrote the China Daily.

source

Um, not to judge (okay, I'm totally judging), but I don't think it was the excessiveness. I think it was his technique. Maybe he should pull a Judy Blume and practice on his pillow.

P.S. She'll regain total hearing in a couple of months. And then she'll become a nun.

"Girls"

A 9-year-old is hanging out on the playground. He notices that his friends are having trouble with the ladies. So he writes a 46-page pamphlet entitled "Girls" filled with relationship advice and sells it at his school's book fair.

He gets a book deal. And then sells the movie rights.

I kid you not. [Insert envy here.]

A sample of his brilliance:

Comb your hair and don't wear sweat pants.


Control your hyperness (cut down on sugar if necessary).


A crush is like a love disease that can drive you mad.


It is easy to spot pretty girls because they have big earrings, fancy dresses and all the jewelry, but they are like cars that need a lot of oil.

Read this excerpt. You will laugh. And identify. 'Cause you were 9 once.

Adorable. I just hope he doesn't grow up to be an annoying know-it-all. Of course, I read Life On the Edge when I was 11, making decisions about what I wanted in a husband before cooties were completely eradicated from my peer group. I'm pretty sure sweat pants and sugar consumption were not deal-breakers. But I was 11, not 9. Going on 45. And was probably a bit of a self-appointed know-it-all too.

Playing For Change

This song gave me chills today. Happy chills. Musicians from all over the world layered their parts to a traveling recording of "Stand By Me." 

I'm having a Miss America moment. World peace is where it's at.

Watch until the end. It gets pretty crazy/beautiful.

Permission to Fail

I was going to respond to a recent comment, but realized my response was quickly becoming too long for the little comment box. So I'll post my thoughts here. Thanks, Walking Church, for identifying the burden of the pedestal:

I don't like that burden much - it seems so unfair - I am just a redeemed man who makes his share of mistakes - most of the time 'a great guy' but frequently humbled by looking at the 'jerk' in the mirror. I guess I believe I have tasted mercy and need to extend it.

Just for the record, I don't walk around assuming men are jerks. Although my motto in high school was "Not all boys are jerks; some are dead." Until a guy snapped back with "Not all girls are dumb; some can cook." In fact, I'm pretty good at giving guys the benefit of the doubt. And more often than not, I'm the one defending the boyfriend or the husband when the girl is frustrated (or homicidal).

Not all that long ago, I had to confront myself (which can be awkward) after making a rather uncomfortable assumption about someone. In a moment of painful honesty, I knew that my disappointment had absolutely nothing to do with him. I was merely comparing him to the man I thought he was. Or wanted him to be. And that wasn't fair. Because the version in my head DOES NOT EXIST. And no one wants to be weighed against fiction. It's brain porn.

It's easy to blame Jerry Maguire for what's happening to our expectations. Too often, women become the walking wounded after investing their hearts in anticipation of a "You complete me" moment that never comes. Because, quite frankly, no broken human is going to complete another broken human. Complement? Sure. But not complete. And one of the hardest things to do is accept that a certain level of dissatisfaction comes from a need for the eternal.

I love how Bebo Norman describes it:

Loneliness is really the issue here, and loneliness doesn't discriminate. It bites every soul created with that God-shaped vacuum inside. It's common ground, really. For believers and unbelievers alike. Because we all know, whether we admit it or not, that regardless of how beautiful and full the relationships in our life may be, there's something else we long for. Something even more beautiful. Something even more full.

One thing I've learned in recent years (I do learn on occasion) is that men are just as insecure as we are. That no one has any clue about anything. And as women cling to romantic notions of the perfect man, men stumble around, feeling more and more inadequate. I've had so many conversations with frustrated souls about how men can't step up because they don't feel they're good enough. He wants to have it all together first. He wants to be proud of his life before he can share it with anyone. He wants it figured out.

Secret of the day: No one has it figured out.

And that's not what I'm asking for.

I'm looking for that messy*, imperfect, vulnerable guy seeking after God's heart.

*Maybe not literally messy. Just we're-on-this-crazy-adventure-together messy.



I love this song. No pedestals. Just learning to love in spite of and because of failure. I think it's time to start giving each other permission to be imperfect. (I'm not endorsing the jerk, but I'm willing to forgive the man who acts like one.)

The end.

Where the Angels Sleep

I woke up with "Where the Angels Sleep" in my head last Saturday morning. The day before my grandmother died. And while the chorus used to stir me, this time the verses seemed startlingly personal. Every time the song cycles through a season of my life, I identify with something new. Sometimes I find it encouraging. And sometimes it makes me cry. So it's never 100% me. But it's often close.

And then last Sunday happened. And the song was neatly tucked into the back of my mind.

Yesterday, I started sorting through the endless stacks of sheet music in my apartment. Scratch that. The endless stacks of poorly photocopied chords covered with transposed scratches and lyric adjustments. A crinkled, melodic chaos. As I was sorting through the mess, I found the lyrics to the gorgeous song that looped over and over in my head a mere week ago, all typed up prettily from the days of when I would tape lyrics to my wall. The chords permanently sit at my piano. And the CD is always but a lonely night away.

Sometimes a girl's just gotta turn up the tunes, turn down the lights and hug her pillow.

Where the Angels Sleep - Bebo Norman
(Listen to the whole song here.)

I don't know why I always run
Is it fear of the fall or fear of the touch?
And I don't know where the angels sleep

And I don't know how to really love
I've never stood still long enough
And I don't know where the angels sleep

But I am alive and standing strong
I'm no farther forward, just farther along
I hold on to my pride and dig in deep
It's pulling me down, and I am no closer to release
And I don't know where the angels sleep

I don't know how to see you now
The friend from before is different somehow
And I don't know where the angels sleep

And I don't know when I'll love again
But I don't trust myself to just let you in
And I don't know where the angels sleep

It's taken ten thousand days
To get stuck in my ways
And it offers no grace
I cannot stand this place
With love in my face
I walk away slowly

I don't know where the angels sleep
No, I don't know where the angels sleep

No matter how much as I play it on the piano, I just don't sound like a boy with a guitar.

Love Lessons: Part 1

One of the disadvantages to being a grandchild is that you never see your grandparents as anything but. By the time I entered the world, they were, in my eyes, old and platonic roommates. I didn't think romance and dancing, quiet moments and stolen kisses. I saw hard workers, not lovers. Occasionally, I'd hear of them going off to dances, but I couldn't really wrap my head around this. Wasn't my grandfather the man who came in from the barn only to fall asleep at the table after a steak-and-potatoes meal prepared by my tired grandmother? Where does a night on the town fit in? Euchre, maybe. But sweeping her off her feet?

On their 40th anniversary, my grandmother put on her wedding dress (Yes, it still fit. How intimidating a feat) and danced with her husband. It's one of the few vivid memories I have of him. He died before their 45th.

When I cried at his funeral, I cried for my grandmother. Sure, I was sad that he was gone. And I was sad that my mom lost her dad. But I was mostly devastated for the wife he left behind. For the next 15 years, I found saying goodbye to my grandmother difficult, as I didn't want to leave her alone in the house they built together. Not once (except in jest) was there a hint of another love in her life. He was it.

This week, the day after her funeral, my cousin stumbled upon treasure. In the bottom of my grandma's closet was a paper bag from Eaton's. Inside were neatly stacked letters. All handwritten. All from my grandfather. All carefully folded and tucked back into their original envelopes.

My grandfather, William, only had an eighth grade education. This didn't stop him from writing her letter after letter, sometimes multiple times a week, while he pursued her. I remember him as a man of few words, so to look at endless pages of written affection is so overwhelmingly beautiful to me. And as the letters approached 1949, he started adding X X X X X to his sign-off. Underlined and all.

I've found it difficult to be distraught over the death of my lovely grandmother. She's dancing with her love on the streets of gold. And no one was left behind this time.