The Seeking Daddy Project Day 56: O Captain, our Captain.

He was a genius.

If you were to ask me what I thought of Robin Williams, today, yesterday, and any day before that, my response would have been the same. He's a genius.

There's not really much else to say but that. He was a genius, and his death is a terrible, heartrending tragedy.

I've often both esteemed and envied Robin Williams: envied his obvious brilliance, talent, and wit. His stand-up is hilarious and inspired. His impressions are scintillating. "Dead Poet's Society" is one of the main reasons I became an English major. His acting is at once deeply, cathartically funny and just as deeply, transcendentally poignant.

The world has lost a singular talent and an incredible man. We will be the worse for his loss.

I've ridden a wave of emotions all throughout the day thinking about it. Celebrity deaths often affect me because of their suddenness, but this one has even more so.

I myself have felt - in perhaps minuscule amounts in comparison - what it feels like: flying on the highest highs, then bottoming out to the lowest lows. Three distinct seasons in my life thus far, three seasons I remember viscerally - one as recent as two years ago - have left me at a place where I wanted nothing more than to end my life as well.

It is by the grace of God that I didn't.

A coworker and I were talking today about Mr. Williams, and his summation was, "He needed Jesus." I had to agree. He needed Jesus because he needed healing. He needed grace. He needed the unconditional love and peace that only our Father can give.

Later on in the day, another coworker said, "I wonder...I wonder if he could have seen all the grief, the love, the adoration and mourning that is being poured out for him...would it have made a difference?"

All I can say is, I hope that he has found Jesus now and is resting in His loving embrace.

Mr. Robin Williams, the world will be a gloomier place without you. Rest in peace, O Captain, our Captain.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 55: "You were RIGHT!"

This is one of my favorite stories to tell because it still, and, I imagine, will always resonate so very strongly with me.  Grab a blankie and get comfy, because it's story time.

I'm proud to say that I've never in my life taken any form of drug, nor will I ever; mostly because they're illegal, but also because I can't conceive of any substance that could give me the kind of high that I feel when I make someone laugh.

It's even better and richer with people I really care about, but no matter what, laughter is what I crave: more than romance, more than money, more than sex or chocolate or cheese or a good haircut. It is the best. I'm like a bug to a porch light, a plant to the sun with other people's laughter: it gives me life.

I've been directing plays for more than 15 years now, and I will always choose a comedy. I will pour my heart and soul and creativity and vision into something seemingly as inconsequential as a 10-minute skit, squeezing the funny out of every line like a well-worn washcloth, then sit in the wings and just listen, heart pounding, waiting for the audience's reaction.

When I first moved to Raleigh and started attending the small church that has now become like my family, I asked the pastor if I could direct plays that we could perform during the service. He said yes, and I was off and running, ready again to do the thing that gives me life.

One of the first skits I chose was a two-character play centered around Father's Day, acted by one of my best friends and another gregarious and good-sported man in the church who had never previously been onstage. It was set in a hospital waiting room, where my 25-year-old friend played a man whose wife was giving birth to their first child and the other man played a character who was waiting for his third child to be born.  It was witty and very talky, the perfect mix of comedic realism and sweet pathos.

We started rehearsing two months in advance of Father's Day, several times a week.  My friend had acted before, but, as I said, the other man hadn't, and though he took direction easily and tried hard, it was an uphill battle. As Father's Day inched closer, I started to get nervous.

Our rehearsals were rough right up until the very end. He had trouble keeping his lines straight, picking up on cues, and remembering the blocking. Through it all, I tried my best to be patient and encouraging.

One night was particularly frustrating.  "I just don't know if I can do it," he said, head in hands.

"Yes, you can!" I cheered, both for him and for myself. "Look, you have to believe me. The first time you hear the audience laugh, it will be all worth it."

Three weeks before the performance, I traveled back to Pennsylvania to pick up the little poodle puppy my parents had gotten for me (who's now the sunshine of my life) and I remember lamenting to my mom, who had taught me to direct in the first place, that I didn't think we were going to be able to pull this off.  Right then, I really didn't think we could.

Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Were we going to make fools of ourselves? Was this going to humiliate this wonderful guy who had volunteered his time and efforts to be in my play? 

It was too late to back out now.

On Father's Day in 2008, I stood in a back room in my little church's sanctuary and listened to those two men give a nearly flawless, perfectly timed performance of our skit - by far the best I'd ever heard them do it. The audience laughed uproariously. That high I feel every time I hear an audience laugh coursed through me. I couldn't have been prouder.

After the skit was over, my new actor bounded back to where I was hiding, ecstatically grinning from ear to ear.  "That was great! That was so much fun!"

I hugged him excitedly, and then he exclaimed, "You were RIGHT!"

That was six years ago, and on average I'd say I still think about that day once a week - especially on days full of the laughter I hold so dearly. There's nothing better.

I was RIGHT!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 54: Too much ME.

Did you ever get just really, truly, genuinely sick and tired of yourself?

I've heard it explained many times that there are only two focuses in life: either God or oneself. I'm either being selfless or selfish.  Giving or grabbing.

It's either Him or me.

I've realized recently that the wearing away of my faith, what happens when I just basically ignore God, isn't big or brash or overtly really noticeable in anything that evangelicals tends to preach at me about in "avoiding temptation" or "sin".  None of it really matters.

It's not the occasional swear word, or the bawdy joke, or the cocktail, or the fact that I'm thinking of going back on birth control. (Controversy!)

It's not the fact that I'd rather listen to standup comedy than Christian music, or flirt with guys, or...the list goes on and on and on.

I'm pretty sure I thought that when I stopped hemming myself in, when I stopped feeling guilty about and denying my own "secular normalcy," that the world would cave in. It didn't.

None of that frivolous stuff is really consequential.  It's much more insidious than that.

I've only recently started to notice it, actually. Here's what it is:  I'm starting to become so sick of myself.

The bottom line is that I don't like who I am without Jesus.

That sounds weird.  Let me put that another way:  I don't like who I am without Jesus actively working to make me more like Himself.  Because right now, I'm not letting Him.

In recent weeks, I've found myself to be an insufferable, lazy, sniveling little worm of a person.  I'm suspicious, negative, bitter, and toxic. I'm derisive instead of gentle, judgmental instead of graceful. I don't give the benefit of the doubt; in fact, I doubt everyone.

Nothing is worse than looking at yourself in the mirror and feeling the urge to look away quickly so you don't see the selfishness in your own eyes.

It isn't me. Wait, actually - it is.

It's me without Jesus.

To be honest, I've spent well nigh on almost two years pushing God away.  Two years of being just angry and bitter and frustrated, stewing in my own filth.  Two years at the turn of a decade that, when my birthday rolled around, everyone told me would be the best.

As I look at it now, I think it was that last burst of Peter-Pan-ness, like a teenager being dropped off at college. I was handed bitter disappointment and heartache, to be sure, and instead of stepping up, I sulked.  I sat down in the parking lot of my dorm and refused to move for two years.

Today marks four months until I turn 32. I don't want to spend another year as myself without Jesus.

I want to step into a faith that is more real, more mature, and more every-day than my faith had ever been before.

Faith that's more about purpose than a plan.

Faith that's more about kindness than blessings.

Faith that shows Jesus' love instead of talking about everything else.

I'm tired of myself - not of the stuff that makes me human, but the little, creeping, sneaky stuff that keeps me from showing Jesus' love every minute of every day to everyone - whether it be over a cocktail or in a church pew.

It's time to step up.  I'm almost 32.  No more sulking.

I choose Him.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 53: What This Woman Wants

At 31, I've been dating for 15 years now. Fifteen years, lots of dates, a few relationships, and no marriages later, I'm very familiar with being "crossed in love," as Mr. Bennet says in Pride and Prejudice.  Years of dating as an adult have worn me down from someone who believed in soul-mates to someone who now believes in really good fits, and also someone who recognizes the rarity of such.

I'm also a big sister to a young woman just beginning her adventures in dating as a grownup (may God have mercy on her soul), and my little sister now sometimes comes to me for advice on relationships.  I'd make some self-deprecating remark about how I don't know anything about men, but to be honest, y'all, I have some stories.

After one of our mutual-makeup-applying chats in front of the bathroom mirror this week, I drove to work thinking about the whole idea of how do you know?  I came up with a list of what I think are some of the most important characteristics - at least for me - in knowing that a man and I will fit well together.  This isn't a checklist of qualities or a row of boxes to tic off; it's that deep, in-your-gutness that I've only ever experienced, oh, maybe once or twice in my life so far.*

I'd be interested to see if any of you feel the same way.

1. Do you respect and admire him for his character, integrity, maturity, and strength?
I've had entire relationships fail because one of these four isn't met, but they usually go hand-in-hand...and usually it's either all or nothing. I'm not talking about strength as in physical strength, either, obviously:  I mean emotional, relational strength, usually manifesting itself in generosity and selflessness.

2. Do you feel safe with him?
Again, this isn't really about physical safety, though that's good too: I mean, does being with him feel like home?  Does it feel like coming home after a long day and wrapping up in a blanket, or a bubble bath, or whatever your preferred method of comfort is?  Life's rough and it will hand your heart back to you, shredded.  The right person should be a soft place to fall, not someone who makes you feel exhausted or on edge.

3. Do you value his opinions?
This kind of goes hand-in-hand with #1, because they'll naturally feed into each other.  If you respect and admire someone, you value and seek out his thoughts and his take on life.  I know I need someone who can help me see the forest when I'm stuck staring at one tree.

4. Does he get your jokes and make you laugh?
Dude, it's going to be a long life if I have to keep explaining my jokes to you.  I mean, seriously. I don't have the faintest memory of the outfits or the food or even often the restaurants of the occasional six-hour dates I've been on, but I remember every line I've ever said that made a man double over or throw his head back in laughter.  Every. Single. One.  Like, up until yesterday (when I wasn't even on a date), every single one.

Oh, and also, please don't be dull. Craig Ferguson, Patton Oswalt, and Louis CK are all middle aged fathers but they make me weak in the knees because of how smart and funny they are. Take note.

5. Does he challenge you to be better in some way?
This one's the kicker, and the one I've experienced far less than any of the others.  This one is rare.  A great smile will captivate me and a nice full head of hair will definitely turn my head, but all of that is circumstantial compared to passion, ambition, a willingness to pursue knowledge and a talent for leadership. I can count on less than one hand the men who, by the very virtue of who they are, have inspired me to be a better who I am. From an ex-boyfriend, to a coworker, to a good friend, these men have and still continue to push me in ways that are sometimes uncomfortable and always challenging but that are ultimately the most vital.  If life is about growth, I want a man who will always be asking me to grow with him.

So that's my list.  What do you think?  Have I learned anything in my decade-and-a-half of dating?

And now, because I must, I leave you with Charlotte York's similar wail, "I've been dating since I was 15. I'm exhausted! Where is he?"

*Here's hoping the third time's the charm, eh?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 52: Redirection.

I winced as Michael dug his fingers into the right side of my neck, willing myself not to squirm.

I'm a very petite woman.  Michael is a powerful guy. He's well over six feet tall and bench presses (lifts? I don't know the terminology, sorry) hundreds of pounds. He makes no apologies about the fact that his massages will probably hurt, but they'll be worth it.  As with so many things in life, they do, and they are.

"I joke that I turn my clients into masochists," he offered with a little laugh. "They end up needing the release of this type of pain once it's over." He was quiet for a moment as I caught my breath against that exact feeling. "It's not a sexual thing. It's just that release."

I thought about making a joke about how it's been almost two months since Tate and I broke up so at this point any kind of release is fine by me, but I decided against it.  Class before sass, at least right then.

I was actually seeing Michael for the second time in two weeks, after life (and things like the car accident) prevented me from keeping my regular appointment.  Trust me, my body really needs my regular appointment.  With Michael as my massage therapist, my mind does, too.

His fingers kept digging into my neck; the pain worsened.  Almost subconsciously, my right hand gripped the sheet covering me.  Suddenly, Michael gently slapped my hand. "Stop that!"

"Did you just smack me?!" I said, both incredulous and amused.

"No, it was...redirection!" he exclaimed.

"Uh-huh." I think at first he couldn't tell if I was angry or not.  "Redirection, you say?"

"...yes!"

"OK, that's fine, sure," I said.  Truth be told, I was a little embarrassed, but mostly I thought it was funny.  He seemed to as well.

It's been more than a week since I last saw him, but I've been turning that word over and over in my head.  If I could describe my 30's, that word is perfect.  Redirection.

If I'm being honest, in my 20's, I hook-line-and-sinker bought into all the evangelical Christian hype I could shovel down my spiritual throat and carried it with me everywhere.  Mostly, I'm ashamed to say, my main goal was finding a husband.  Everything hinged on that.  I was told I needed to find not just a husband, mind you, but a "Godly man," a "solid Christian" guy who would be a "spiritual leader."  I'm frustrated to say that I spent so much time in pursuit of that goal that there are several years, countless prayers, wasted experiences, and many missed moments I wish I could get back and would just suck the marrow out of rather than trying to analyze them as potential to be an on-ramp to reach Perfect Christian Marriage and Lifeville.

As the years ticked by, I became increasingly frustrated with the lack of this "blessing from God" in my life. I felt gypped. Led down the garden path. Overlooked. Let out to dry. Lied to. Inconsequential. Invalidated. Forgotten.

The main problem, of course, is that I am a walking oxymoron.

I'm too liberal for a conservative, too conservative for a liberal.

I support gay marriage, equal rights, and feminism, but then get extremely frustrated with especially militant Christian feminists and anyone else who spends all their time crowing over their oppression.

I don't get offended by profanity - most of the time, I think it's hilarious.

I drink whiskey, make scandalous jokes on the regular, and crave intimacy with men, though I could never conceive of having any kind of intimacy without a deep emotional connection and mutual respect.

I'm a prude to many and a Jezebel to just as many.  My best friend says I'm "too friendly" with guys, and yet I have a personal rule that I won't kiss someone until I know his middle name.

Once I turned 30, something strange happened.  I'm now on the expired shelf to a lot of the guys I used to think I wanted, but I'm finding myself redirecting.  The last year or so - especially the last few months - have been some of the best of my life.  I've relaxed.  I'm easier with a one-liner, quicker with a laugh, and much more in-the-moment than I've ever been.  I've somehow (not always, not completely, but still) become much more comfortable in my own skin.  I know who I am and I like her, and instead of begging God for a "suitable" husband or trying to pretend things about myself that aren't true, I'm just relaxing into being me.  The results, I must say, aren't half bad.

I'm also realizing that instead of searching in vain for a "Godly" husband, I'd much prefer a man who's intelligent, thoughtful, open, reflective, and real.  One who will laugh at my jokes instead of being scandalized by them.  One who will consider nuance rather than knee-jerk labeling sin. One who isn't afraid of my intelligence, my ambition, my accomplishments, and - gasp - my sexuality, and gives me the benefit of the doubt with regards to all of it.

Faith is important, but just as much so are intelligence and maturity.  I'm no longer a horse-in-blinders, gulping churchy words and spewing them with virulence, but instead realizing that grace, hope, and love are far more nuanced and complicated.

If I've learned anything in the last year, it's that it's time I started looking around and really seeing people, not just potential - in my friends, in men, and in myself.

And that right there?  That's redirection for me.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 51: Unglued, Part the Second

I know it's been awhile, but at long last I'm finishing this story.  Go ahead and read Unglued, Part the First for a refresher first!

Anyway, so, back at the ballpark...

As I sat at the picnic table, drinking a $7 cup of white wine and fiddling with the little cork-heeled cause of my angst, I realized with some horror that I wasn't going to be able to make it the four blocks (uphill) back to the car.  I was trying to keep myself from spiraling into panic mode when Aaron and a couple of our other young guy coworkers came up to the table.

My only explanation is that we communicated telepathically, because before I knew it, classic hero that he is, Aaron had offered to go get the car and bring it back to pick me up.

I handed him my keys, and ten minutes later, my coworker/friend Meghan* and I met him in front of the ballpark.  Meghan asked us to take her back to her car, and I climbed in the backseat while she took shotgun.

We started driving around; Meghan didn't really remember where she'd parked.  It was understandable, really, in all the traffic.  We were only a few streets away from the ballpark about to go through a stoplight when she said, "Oh wait, I think it's down there!" Aaron braked slightly and turned the steering wheel to the right - and WHAM! We all flew forward.  My car had been rear-ended.

The next half hour went by in a blur.  Aaron pulled my car off to a side street, and the surprised, shaken young woman who had rear-ended us followed.  Another car had nearly clipped her; she was trying to avoid it and didn't see us. No one was hurt. We didn't call the police. Her mom, who was close by, came to her rescue.  I remember that I flew out of the backseat as soon as we'd stopped, quickly dialing my dad's number even though I'm in my thirties and live 300 miles away from him.

It took me awhile to realize that the bottom of my left sandal was now totally gone.  I hobbled around,  my right foot four inches higher than the left, the whole time we stood there.  One of the senior managers at our company had parked his car on that very side street, and he ended up taking Meghan back to her car.

I hadn't been in an accident in nearly 10 years.  I kept telling myself, don't freak out, don't overreact, this kind of thing happens all the time, but I can't say I was successful in any of that.

My car was driveable.  The bumper was badly damaged and the exhaust pipe and muffler hung down towards the back wheel, but I could get it home.  The other girl's car wasn't nearly so lucky.

We finally got back on the road; I drove shakily and Aaron was trying valiantly to be calming in the passenger seat.  I think he'd given me a hug. I remember thinking I'm so glad he's here.  I couldn't imagine driving back from Durham, a route that makes me nervous anyway, all alone after that.

Despite leaving the ballpark early, we got caught in the worst of the rush-hour traffic going back to the office because of the accident.  I turned the stand-up comedy channel back on, but in our heightened state neither of us could enjoy it; it just sounded like yelling.  Soon, I switched it off, and then we just talked. It was real talk, an honest dialogue between unlikely friends - friends who had both been admittedly surprised at the strength of our connection over the last few months.  We talked about our hopes, our fears, our pasts, our dreams. We dug deep. We blushed, we laughed, we opened up.

Never in a million years when I first met Aaron would I have dreamed we'd end up so close.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I went back and forth with insurance companies, leaving voicemails and memorizing claim numbers.  I finally got my car repaired and picked it up earlier this week.  All is well again.

My secret is that, other than a home invasion or a fire, one of my greatest fears is a car accident.  They're messy, they're expensive, and without my car I'm virtually helpless - I can't get anywhere.  Aaron was (again) a hero during the interlude, picking me up on his way to work and dropping me off on his way home, checking the bumper to make sure it wouldn't fall off and looking under the car to examine the muffler.  I'll be forever grateful.  I'm so glad I have my car back, though, because nothing compares to driving down a long stretch of highway at dusk on a summer night, playing my music and reflecting.

I've thought a lot about that day since it happened, and to my own surprise, I'd honestly do it all over again.  Parts of it were stressful and inconvenient, sure, but there were those moments: the moments when Aaron and I were laughing together at Patton Oswalt yelling "YOU STUPID DOUCHENOZZLE!" or on the drive back home, when I learned more about him than I ever thought I would, that I will forever cherish.

It's those moments that make life sweet.  It's those moments I'll carry with me and always think of with fondness and affection.  And if it took a fender-bender to get them, well, that seems like a bargain to me.

*Also not her real name. You know the drill by now.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 50: Unglued, Part the First

"You have to hear this one Patton Oswalt bit," Aaron* said, grinning excitedly from across our cubicle. "It's hilarious!  He's talking about a girl he slept with and going to get the morning after pill..."

Aaron and I have shared cube space almost the entirety of his seven months at our company.  In that time, we've become fast friends, bonding over our love of standup comedy and just generally ridiculing the ridiculous.  He's a standup guy (pun intended): ambitious, witty, enthusiastic, encouraging, deep-voiced and football-player-muscled.  All in all, a classic hero.  He even rescued me during Raleigh's horrendous Snowmaggedon a few months earlier by driving me home in his huge SUV. I owe him several home-cooked meals at this point.

"I was thinking about it last night; you have to listen to it!" he continued. I raised my eyebrows.  He was already giggling.

"No, no, seriously!  I know it sounds bad, but it's so funny. He's telling this story, right, and then this guy in the crowd heckles him, and he just GOES OFF on him.  Oh my god, it's amazing.  He just YELLS at him for like ten straight minutes.  He's like, 'YOU DOUCHENOZZLE!'...wait, I can't do it, I'm gonna ruin it.  You just have to hear it...oh my god..."

He put his head down on the desk, shoulders shaking. His mirth was contagious; I couldn't help but grin too. 

A few hours later, we were headed to the Durham Bulls Ballpark.  Our company had paid for us all to go to a game as a team-building exercise, providing food and a half day to sit in the sun.  Since we live close to each other and have to drive the same way going home, Aaron and I carpooled in my Focus.  I plugged my iPhone in and turned to Patton Oswalt station on Pandora, and wouldn't you know it, right as we approached the exit, the very bit he was talking about came on.  He's right - it's hilarious.  Soon we were both helpless with laughter, and the traffic jam we got stuck in coming off the exit didn't seem nearly as bad.

The ballpark was packed yesterday, almost unbelievably so.  We spent an hour circling the area around it, trying in vain to get into several parking decks only to be told they were full up as we approached in a long line of equally frustrated drivers.  At long last, we found a parking deck four blocks away from the ballpark with some open spaces.

Now, here's the thing: I'm 4'10". My shoe closet is full of 4-inch heels. 

I've run down Broadway in stiletto mary-janes. I've clipped along Oxford Street in heeled boots. But yesterday, as I was hiking the four blocks from the parking deck toward the ballpark with Aaron, the heel on my 4" cork wedge sandal ripped in half.

We made it there, but unbeknownst to me, the front part of my shoe was hanging on by a thread - literally.  Many flights of stairs, bleachers, and a long saunter (well, toddle, on my part) around the arena looking at souvenirs didn't help.  By the end of the afternoon, I collapsed at a nearby picnic table with my coworkers/girlfriends, my left sandal holding itself together for dear life.

And that was only the beginning.

*Not his real name.  It rhymes, though.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 49: The adult thing to do.

On Easter Sunday afternoon, I was driving behind my best friend's car towards her apartment, on our way to Easter brunch with her family.

"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday," I said haltingly to Tate on the phone. "...and...I just...I can't give you what you want."

He sighed. "I don't think I can give you what you want, either."

I blinked back tears and choked out, "So...what does that mean...?"

We were both quiet for a moment.

"It's the adult thing to do," he said.

Soon after pulling into my best friend's apartment complex, I was single again.

Even though our breakup was mutual - dare I say amicable - and something I think we both knew was coming, it still stings a bit. Though Tate and I remain close friends and speak often, it's still sad. It's possibly the most mature parting-of-the-ways I've experienced.

And yet, I feel a bit like the wind has been let out of my sails.

I never thought I would still be single at 31. All my life, I've dreamed of having a partner - in ministry, in family, in life. Perhaps it's a little girl's fantasy, perhaps it's a desire shoved on me by the patriarchy, perhaps it's just something I long for, but it's always been there. I know I'm not "old," and I know there's still plenty of time to date, get married, and (possibly) have children.

I also know I can be more than content on my own. I'm comfortable going out alone - I went to a concert and two restaurants by myself just this week. I have all the affection and cuddles I could hope for in my precious Lottie. God has blessed me with a busy life that is full and rewarding whether or not I have a man in it at any given time.

Even still, I can't help but daydream.

It's not the every-dayness that bothers me, really; it's the big picture. The goals, the dreams, the things to work towards.  I've always thought I'd be making these goals and planning these dreams with my partner, but as the years continue to turn, I can't count on that. Should I begin to plan that it'll be just me? Should I begin working towards my own individual goals 10, 20, 30 years from now? I know well enough how quickly time passes. There's so much I want to do - for God and for others. I want to go back to England, write books, take seminary classes, be a poodle foster mom.  Some or all of those may or may not be possible with a family, I'm well aware. Should I just accept now that I'll be doing all of that on my own?

It's a hard pill to swallow. I've been turning it over and over between my fingers for awhile now, gulping.

In the meantime, I aim to continue to get back to being close with my Daddy, my Creator, my Lord...because in His welcoming arms I can find all the love, comfort, and companionship I know I will ever need.

It was the adult thing to do.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 48: It's May!

Happy May Day, everyone!

In honor of today, I present the wonderful song from Camelot that every year I always sing to friends, coworkers, and (mostly) Lottie:

I apologize for my silence in the last few weeks.  A lot has been happening, which I'll probably write about here tomorrow. Suffice it to say, my silence hasn't been laziness or apathy about my closeness with God.

For today, though, let's enjoy the fact that it's spring! May is my favorite month, and hopefully this year will be no different.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 47: An old meme?

I just watched "Pitch Perfect" for the first time a few weeks ago when my good friend Kayla was visiting. It was cute, but one part stood out to me - Anna Kendrick's little song and cup percussion combination when she was auditioning.

I may have spent an hour or so watching Anna Kendrick perform the "Cups" song and singing that lovely little lyrical bit in the wee hours of the morning last night, and I may have made it my new mission in life to learn how to do it, too.

Here's the full (studio) version, if you haven't seen it:

When Tate came to visit me today, I told him about my plan excitedly.  Apparently, though, I'm a bit late to the party, because he said dismissively, "Oh, that's an old meme now."

I have to say, I was a little crushed.

I kept thinking about that summation this evening as I was getting ready for bed. An old meme. What makes it old?  For that matter, what makes it a meme?  To be honest, oftentimes at this stage in my life, I feel like an old meme.  I've been there, done that.  I've seen it all before.  It's not my first time at the rodeo.

But you know what?  This is my first time seeing this little song and I think it's precious and whimsical and I want to learn it. It's not an old meme to me.

And so, from one "old meme" to another - it sure would be prettier with you.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 46: Stagnation.

Well, I failed.

The last few weeks of March were rough, busy at work, some life things getting in the way, and I got behind on my posts. Then I got more behind, and before I knew it more than a week had gone by and I failed.

I'm sorry.

It'll probably happen again.  And I'm sorry for that, too.

To be honest, I'm kind of floundering. Stalling. Stagnating.  I'm not moving forward. I wouldn't say I'm moving backwards, per se, but if you're not moving forward are you really doing anything?

Probably not.  Isn't there a famous quote about that somewhere?

So, in summary, I'd ask for prayers. If any of you out there reading this have experienced this kind of stagnation - this kind where you just want to sit still and be, but aren't really doing anything except existing in that stillness - and would like to share that story with me, I'd be glad to hear it.

This is the strangest season I've ever been in, because I'm not quite sure what to do.

I think I know, but then I think maybe I don't.

I remember when I thought I knew so many times before, and I was wrong.

So all I can say is...I'm still here.

And that's pretty much all I have for today.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 45: Type C.

"You're a really good writer," Michael offered.  I can't be sure, but I thought I detected a hint of surprise in his voice.

After I used his eruditeness as material last month, I sent him a text message congratulating him on making his debut in my blog with the link to the post.  I'd been a little nervous ever since to hear what he thought.

"I was waiting for the adjective you were going to use," I joked, suddenly feeling very vulnerable while staring through the little padded hole in the massage table.  I've been half naked in front of this man every month for a year, but this kind of exposure was way worse.

"Y'know, that's not even it," he corrected himself.  "There's more to it than that.  You're..."

He was quiet for a few thoughtful moments as he balanced hot towels on my back.  Suspense hung in the air.  I bit my tongue, wanting terribly to break the silence with a one-liner.

"...you're conversationally contemplative without being intellectually snarky."

"Well, thanks," I said.  It wasn't quite the overt fawning I was hoping for, but hey, I'll take it.

Further into the massage, we were talking about relationships, and he started telling me about a woman he fancies.

"I think the reason I like her is that she's steady.  She's reliable.  She's responsible," he said.  "Her finances are stable, her situation is stable.  I like that."

I wanted to ask him if he was interested in a woman or a minivan, but I decided against it.

"She's a bit older than I am, and she has her stuff together," he continued.  "I've always been attracted to type-A's.  I look for someone who can take care of me."

"Type A's?" I inquired.

"Yeah, I mean,  I'm fun, I'm spontaneous, I'm romantic, I'm great with kids and dogs.  I'm pretty..."

"And humble!" I added.  He laughed.

"But I'm not a planner," he continued.  "I'm terrible at details.  I let mail pile up on the counter for months.  Unless something changes, I'll be working for the rest of my life."

I weighed these attributes in my mind as he continued, "There are two types of guys, well, people really: Type A's, who are go-getters, ambitious, who make the money, and then there are Type B's, like me.  With me, I mean, I'll go anywhere and do anything and we'd have a great time together - but someone has to be responsible.  Someone has to pay the bills."

"Uh...those are the choices?  There's no Type C?"

"Not really," he shrugged.

Someone has to pay the bills.

This struck a chord with me.  Admittedly, I'm pretty much a quintessential Manic Pixie Dream Girl.  I read Victorian novels, quote Shakespeare in everyday conversation, and wear patterned tights.  I bring homemade cupcakes to work at least once a month.  Every random quip is a metaphor for life.  I prefer being called hilarious to anything else, ever.  There's never been a Zooey Deschanel dress I didn't covet.  

Also, recently I've been putting forth a great deal of effort to get my finances back in order.  After many years of un- or under-employment, I'm working towards correcting the errors and misfortunes of my past and save for a decade hopefully filled with far less financial strain.  I don't have impossible dreams - a second dog someday, a new car in a few years, maybe a trip or two back to England.  All of this I'm planning with the assumption that my particular brand of conversationally contemplative charm may or may not be enough to attract a man who's willing to co-sign his financial life with mine for the long-term.  Ultimately, when the time comes, I want a partner, not a caretaker.  I want to be part of a team, not an albatross who occasionally makes spinach lasagna.

I want to be a Type C - a girl who lights candles on a Tuesday evening and makes up cheesy songs for every occasion but who can buy actual cheese and pay her own bills.  I would absolutely hate for someone to dismiss me because I'm more ethereal than practical...or vice-versa.  Both would be tragic.

Can a Manic Pixie Dream Girl also be minivan-esque?

All I can say is, I know at least one who is certainly trying.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 44: Buddy.

My good friend Kayla is visiting this week, and, as I do with all my friends, I suggested we go get a massage from my wonderful massage therapist.

After my massage, I took Michael's (yes, he's named after the archangel, I KNOW RIGHT) dog Buddy for a walk while Kayla got hers.  When we got back from our 45 minute hike several times around the block in the cold, drizzly "early spring" weather we're currently "enjoying" here, I settled on the chair in the waiting area with my book.  I glanced up after a minute or two, and this is what I saw:

You guessed it...Michael's behind the door.

Watching Buddy lying there got me thinking: he's faithfully guarding the door for his owner.  He's where he's meant to be.  He's where he wants to be. The center of his universe is behind that door, so right in front of it is his little corner of the world.

What if we were like that with God?

What would it look like if we guarded the door that God is behind?

It would look different for every one of us.  We have different callings, different ministries, different passions.  We have different abilities, different talents.  God has purposed us each to use what He's given us to further His kingdom.

What would it look like if I were as loyal to God as Buddy is loyal to Michael?

It certainly wouldn't look like my life as it is.

I want to be more like Buddy.  I want to be just as loyal, just as dedicated, just as adoring.  I don't want there to be any question to whom I give my devotion.

If God had a door, I'd be curled up in front of it.

What does that look like for you?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 43: What are miracles made of?

What are miracles made of?

So many times in my life, I have been at the end of my rope.  The end of the line. 11:59.  Down to the wire.  This is it, folks.

I needed a miracle.

So many times, I've felt like God was silent.

So many times, I've felt like I was staring into the blackness of a vacuum, a canyon of nothingness.

So many times, I've felt completely hopeless. 

So many times, I've lain in my bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, tears streaking down my face, begging God to do something.

"Please help me, Daddy.  Please.  Rescue me.  Please."

And so many times, He has answered.  Every time, in fact.

It's never been the same way.  In fact, He has answered in different ways in each circumstance.

And most of those times, it's through someone else.

I think that often, we focus on God above and Jesus on the cross and forget about the Holy Spirit.  We forget that the Spirit of the Lord in each and every one of us is the exact same Spirit that we pray to every day, the exact same Spirit who died for us.

It's the exact same Spirit who saves us.

Miracles are God in us. When we let the Holy Spirit do its work, He does miracles through us.

I've been humbled recently; given grace I don't deserve and patience I haven't earned.  I've been shown such depth of love, generosity of spirit, and direct evidence of God's selfless grace that it has not only answered my fervent prayers but has acted as a more powerful witness to my cracked and crumbling spirit than I have ever experienced before in my life.

There's nothing like being evangelized by seeing God working through people who care about you to just completely refresh and revitalize your heart.

I haven't been to church in months.  I haven't listened to a sermon in nearly as long.  I've barely prayed, barely spent time in the Word, and often felt justified in my anger and rebelliousness.  Foolishly, I might add.  All of this ridiculous behavior has been to my own detriment.

But this - this love, this grace, this generosity and selflessness - I cannot ignore or push away.  I can only beg forgiveness and try to be the kind of blessing and show the same kind of love to others that I have been shown for all the rest of my days.

That's what miracles are made of.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 42: The Wisdom of Friends, Part 1

"Sometimes, things don't work out the way you thought they would." -Rachel, "Friends"

That line has been echoing in my head for days now.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 41: Yawn.

You know you're getting old when the questions shifts from "Why am I here?" to "Why am I awake?"

It's been (another) one of those weeks, folks.

Where does life-changing faith fit in the minutiae of survival? 

That's the question I must leave you with tonight, as consciousness eludes me ever more quickly. Happy Almost-Friday, and Happy Almost-Spring.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 40: Windy.

As the weather warms during early spring, Raleigh gets a lot of storms. Tonight, a severe thunderstorm rolled in suddenly, transforming the lovely sunny afternoon into a dark, turbulent evening. It came on so quickly that I had to pull off to the side of the interstate on my way home from work because I couldn't see a foot in front of me for the sheets of rain that pounded down on my windshield.

When I took Lottie out for her before-bed bathroom trip just now, the rain had subsided, but it still felt ominous. The storm hung in the air. The wind howled and rolled around behind the houses in our subdivision, tilting trees and shifting the senses. Groaning and whistling, it felt like something foreboding was whisking all around us. Whispering. Scheming. Warning.

I feel that way, too. Something is changing...something has already changed. My spirit is different, lurching against itself, straining against the walls of its old shape, trying to make sense of who it is now.

I can only hope it's for the better.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 39: Peroxide.

I'd been seeing that "peroxide whitens teeth!" meme going around Facebook for months, so recently, I decided to try it.

One of my weird childhood fascinations (that followed me into adulthood) has always been to pour peroxide into an open wound and watch it bubble. I was the kid who would pick at scabs or scratch at big bites and then run to the bathroom to clean off the blood, stick my leg or arm or whatever it was into the bathtub or over the sink, and douse it with peroxide. I felt a great sense of accomplishment watching it bubble, as if it were healing right in front of my eyes - even though I had usually been the one to open (or reopen) the wound in the first place.

The directions bequeathed to me by the almighty internet about using peroxide as a teeth whitener said to use about two tablespoons and swish it in your mouth for a full minute. It warned that the peroxide in your mouth would bubble and foam, and that means it's doing its job and cleansing the bacteria.

Let me tell you, it certainly does bubble and foam.

As I poured the peroxide into my mouth tonight and felt it start to foam almost immediately, I thought about how my soul is just like my mouth. It gets battered and broken and full of gunk - gunk that's not visible or tangible but that is certainly there. I carry it around all the time. Instead of bad breath or dingy teeth, it manifests in impatience, selfishness, and anger. I'm short-tempered. I'm petulant. I wonder what's in it for me?

I'm hoping this time of reflection and introspection will be like peroxide for my soul. I know I'll never be able to cleanse it all, but maybe I can get it a little whiter, a little less grimy and full of bacteria, if I just keep swishing.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 38: Puppy loss.

I'm going to move over tonight and, for this blog post, instead devote it to sharing my friend Renee's story - she just lost her family dog, Rocky, last week.  Her blog, where she's written a memorial for him, is here.

No pseudonyms.  No posturing.  None of my whining or wondering about what it all means.

Because ultimately, I know that it all means is love, and there is no love like the love of a dog.  I don't at all think it's coincidence that dog is God spelled backwards.

Rest in peace, Rocky.  You will be missed.  And Renee, Lottie and I are so, so sorry for your loss.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 37: Precious Lord, take my hand.

I've had a rough day, and to be honest I'm only awake now because Lottie hasn't eaten all day long and I finally coerced her into eating the food I put out for her this afternoon by adding some treats on top.  She's in the kitchen, finally munching away at almost midnight. It's been a difficult day for both of us, because she feels very keenly whatever I'm feeling.  She's been by my side all throughout the day today.

All I can offer tonight are lyrics from one of my most favorite hymns, which right now keep rolling over and over in my mind and heart.

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on,
Let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

I'd ask for prayer tonight, please - for clarity, for comfort, and to be able to get back to who I know I am - the girl I've felt estranged from for so long now.

Thank you, friends.  Your prayers, your support, and the fact that you read this blog all mean so much more than you know.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 36: Settling well.

Give a girl an education and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody. -Jane Austen

All I can say is...here's hoping.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 35: Do they care?

“Honey, my email’s the same,” she said laughingly - almost dismissively.

It was Homecoming Sunday last year at the church I’ve attended regularly for the six years that I’ve lived here.  The woman I was speaking with had been like my second mother, helping me move, graciously storing some of my belongings in her home while I was between apartments, acting in plays I directed, giving me delicious, easy recipes with which I built out my culinary repertoire – until she and her husband moved four hours away to the mountains several months earlier.  I miss her terribly.

I had sent her an email several weeks previously after not hearing anything from her for months, asking how she was.  There had been no response.

“I emailed you a few weeks ago…” I said meekly.

“Well I didn’t get it, sweetie,” she said, still laughing.  I was stung by her joviality. Didn’t she realize how much I missed her?  Didn’t she know that she’d been so important to me, and then she’d just left?  Didn’t she care that I was hurting?

I guess it’s a double-edged sword that I grew up and lived in the same town, on the same street, in the same house where my parents still live, my whole life until I moved out in my mid-20’s.  They moved into that house in 1979 and have been there ever since.  In the town where I grew up, people of their generation tended to stay right there in that town.  My parents were high school sweethearts – Mom went with Dad to his senior prom at the high school from which my sister and I graduated more than 30 years later.  There is very little moving away.  There is very little leaving.

What this has meant for me in my adult life is that I feel personally betrayed and forgotten by anyone who dares to leave me in any capacity.

“Just email me again!  I’ll get back to you,” she concluded, before starting up a conversation with someone else.

Now, I admit, this may be a childish, whiny, immature thing to say, but here it is:  I don’t want to have to email her.  

I want her to email me!

I’m 25 years her junior.  I’m wet behind the ears.  I’m struggling, I’m unsure, I’m floundering.  I’m sad and lonely.  I miss her.  I miss my old pastor.  I miss the people at my ex-boyfriend’s previous church who were always so kind to us.  I miss feeling like I have a support system.  I miss having people who cared.  

I miss the people who were supposed to be there for me and I want them back.

Even more so, I want them to want to come back.

I want them to reach out to me, to check on me, to ask how I'm doing and to genuinely care.  I want them to say they miss me too, that I am important, that I matter to them.

I want to have mattered to them.

I haven’t emailed her.  I’m not going to force someone to care about me.  We invest in the people we care about, and if she can’t be bothered, then she must not care very much and the last five years meant nothing to her.

That’s how I feel about nearly everyone these days.  

That time meant nothing.

And that’s even harder for me to deal with than the fact that they left.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 34: Smile for the camera!

My toy poodle Lottie has really bad teeth.

It's the bane of our existence, really.  She's tiny, and there's just not enough room in her mouth for all of them.  She's only five years old, but in the past three years (and four dental cleanings) she's lost all but 9 of her teeth.  She still has all her canines and can still eat fine, but I don't want her to end up a 7-year-old toothless wonder-dog who can't enjoy bones and rawhides.

However, try to brush that handful of pearly whites and my sweet, loving little dog turns into a 5-pound Cujo bent on destruction of everything in her path.

Tonight, realizing it's been a few weeks since she's had her teeth brushed by the groomer, I decided it was time to try again with the tiny angled toothbrush and beef-flavored doggie toothpaste I bought a few years ago.  I did everything the package said: I let her smell the toothpaste, lick it off my finger, praised her over and over, and finally...managed to wedge her in between my knees and desperately tried to get even a few brushes in between her vicious attempts to take off my hands with the few crunchers she has left.

After ten minutes of fighting, I gave up and reached for the dental spray I keep on our bathroom counter - a compromise, if you will.  (Not really, she hates that too.)  But first, I decided that I was going to prove to our vet that Lottie will not let me do anything with her teeth, so I turned on the video recorder on my iPhone and set it up against the bathtub to film her.

"This video is for Dr. Tran!" I announced to a quizzical Lottie, who did the poodle head-tilt as I narrated. "This is to show her that Lottie will NOT let me brush her teeth or spray them!  This is proof!"

Lottie sat across from me with a look as if to say, "Mom, quit being such a weirdo."

I leaned in, grabbed Lottie under her chin, held the spray in my other hand...and would you believe it, she sat peacefully right there as I opened her mouth and sprayed her teeth, no muss, no fuss.

I was shocked.

I praised her out of disbelief as well as excitement, and after I was finished she trotted off back to her rawhide in the other room, adjusting to the new flavor in her mouth.

I picked up the iPhone and stared at it dumbly...then stopped the recording.

What just happened?!

She had never let me spray her teeth before - not once in her almost 6 years of life.

And yet, when the camera was on, she sat still and was complacent.

Now, I'm not silly enough to think that she understood the camera was there. That wasn't it. She probably was just relieved that I wasn't trying to use the toothbrush, or she liked the taste of the spray (suddenly), or any other number of reasons.  Whatever it was, though, it got me thinking.

How many of us are like that?  Angry, rebellious, fighting with God, fighting with our families and friends - until the camera is switched on?  Until we're out in the open, out around strangers, out at church or in public?

How often do we stop our bad behavior when all eyes are on us?

I think that's one of the reasons I sometimes get frustrated with church.  Not any one church in particular, just in general - we have a tendency to lie when we're at church.  In response to "How are you?", we say "I'm well!" or "I'm fine," not being genuine.  We have a tendency to put on a happy face, to sweep our struggles under the rug, or to deny that we're suffering.

We have a tendency to become complacent when the camera is switched on.

I can't be complacent right now.  I can't be silent and obliging in this season of my life.  I can't just pretend everything is fine and that I'm not angry, not hurting, not heartbroken.

I guess I just have to find someone, something, somewhere...that won't turn on the camera.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 33: Fragile.

I think one of the hardest truths for me to swallow about adulthood is that nobody  will ever really fight for you as much as you want them to.

We're all just human. We're fragile. We all have our own problems and mountains and questions and doubts. We're all busy and tired and overextended.

We can only do so much.

So...what happens to those people who slip through the cracks?

Who fights for them?

Who will fight for me?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 32: Selfies.

   

Me, tonight, tired after a long day.

There's a girl I know and follow on Instagram who literally posts at least one selfie - often several - every single day.

This girl is a Christian, married at the age when most kids would've been starting their freshman year in college, and lives with her barely-20-year-old husband in a suburb of Raleigh as he's in college at the local seminary. 

Now, I'm 10 years her senior and have been a Christian longer than she's been alive...but to me, in my time of doubt and floundering, all those selfies are hurting her witness.

I mean, seriously, every single day? She literally can't do anything - do her nannying job, go to Bible study, go out to dinner, go shopping, etc etc ad nauseum, without posting a selfie about it. Oftentimes with the hashtag #blessed, of course. 

Why does this bother me so much?

Logically, I know she's a child and doesn't know any better. But every time I see another selfie it digs into my subconscious like a little prickly thorn.

Now, I'm not that old: I grew up with the internet, but there were still some things that were sacred. We didn't know where everyone was every moment of the day. We didn't broadcast every adventure or misadventure or shenanigan on Facebook. And ten years ago, on my college campus or in my group of friends,  the idea of constantly posting pictures of oneself on the internet would have seemed, well...like a pathetic waste of time.

I think my distaste stems from the fact that it's insidiously narcissistic. If a girl does her makeup well but doesn't post a selfie about it, I mean, does it even count?

And, dare I ask - where's God in all this?

Here's what I think: #blessed is, more often than not, #boasting. Why does everyone need to know you're getting a manicure or going to the beach or going on a date?

Shouldn't we be constantly trying to take the focus off ourselves and put the focus on God?

I certainly think so. And it's something I need to work on, too. I mean, right after this post, of course. My hair looked pretty good tonight - #blessed!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 31: Death.

I pay for HBO every month largely for just two shows: The Newsroom and Girls. I'm sure I'll be writing about The Newsroom quite a bit more in the summertime when it comes back on, but for now, Girls is on and I'm strangely fascinated by it.

Since I had a largely puritanical, straight-laced twenty-something experience, a lot of the nuances of Girls don't quite resonate with me.  Even so, many of them do - the insecurity, the questioning, the doubt.  The major shifts.  The minor harmonies that haunt the everyday.

On last night's episode of Girls, Hannah's grandmother is sick and near death.  She goes to the hospital where her mother, aunts, and cousin are all gathered, waiting.  They do a montage of scenes through the night where the three aunts and Hannah are sleeping in the hospital hallway...just passing time waiting for the grandmother to either die...or not.

One of my deepest and scariest truths is that I'm afraid there will be no one there for me when I pass.

I'm 31 years old, unmarried, and childless.  I can't even handle thinking about my five-year-old dog growing older, much less myself.  My younger sister will have children, I'm sure, but how much does an aunt really mean to a twenty-something?  Would you spend the night in a hospital for an aunt?  Would you stop by to visit?  Would you care for her the way you would your mother?

Doubtful.

As I watched that scene, I thought about my own grandmother in the hospital in the months before she died: small, scared, and sick.  Withered.  A shadow of her former self. Doctors and surgeries and pills away from the vibrant woman I remember from my childhood who tended her garden and cooked elaborate meals for her grand-kids.  I remember how sad she looked each time I left.  I remember how hard it was to fit a visit in between school and my work schedule and my plans.  My big plans that didn't really matter.

I wish I hadn't left so soon.

I hope that when I get to be an old lady, whoever my family is won't be so quick to leave me alone in the hospital room.

I hope when I get to be an old lady, I will have family who will visit.

I can only hope.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 30: Yep.

"The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing.  Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul-crushing inadequacy.  And that's on a good day." -Robert De Niro at the 2014 Oscars

I couldn't have written it better.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 29: Puppy love.

It's one of my greatest sources of pride and joy that my Lottie has absolutely no fear or trepidation of any kind when it comes to humans.  In fact, she can't even conceive of the idea of someone not liking her or not wanting to pet her and cuddle with her.  It's never happened.  She has been surrounded by love her entire life.  Even with people who don't fawn all over her, she will still snuggle up next to on the couch contentedly, because to her, people are big warm buckets of love for her to draw from and enjoy and give her precious poodle affection to, obviously.

The other night, as we were curled up in bed together and she stretched out against me, sleeping, I watched her with my heart swelling.  The fact that my little dog has been well cared for and loved her whole life is something I can't help but feel pride over.

She's my little girl, my sunshine, and the light of my life.  She's curled up right next to me as I type this.  Why wouldn't I take the best care of her that I could?

I then thought about that idea regarding us and God.  Am I like that with God?

Do I fear God?  Sometimes, yes.

Sometimes I view God as a dictator, doing everything His way regardless if it hurts me.

Sometimes I view God as a judge, ready to sentence me for my shortcomings.

Sometimes I view God as a monarch, sitting on His throne watching His peasants starve.

I used to view God as Abba, Daddy, Father, a loving friend and confidante who was always on my side and against whom I could curl up and feel safe with, no matter what.

As I watched Lottie sleep, thinking about how much I love her and how grateful I am that she loves me, I wondered if God feels the same way about me.

Does God watch me sleep with His heart bursting with love and affection for His little girl?

If He does, I wish I could feel it.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 28: The albatross.

I admit, sometimes my spirit rubs up against being a corporate shill the wrong way.

For the most part, I like my job.  I'm very blessed to have it.  My company fosters a wonderful working environment, my team is supportive and collaborative, and my intelligence and initiative are encouraged and rewarded.  I'm blessed.

But then, sometimes this English major's little soul gets lost in CRMs and ROI and the endless questions of "So how is your company going to make me money?" and I just want to pull out a Victorian novel and hide under my desk.

As I've whined previously, February was tough.  I'm on the sales side of the company, and it was a short month anyway, coupled with several days lost because of the blasted, incessant snow.  We were struggling to even come close to our goals at the end of this month.  I swear, if I find white hairs in my head this weekend, I'll be able to pinpoint exactly the moment, at almost 4pm this afternoon when we still weren't quite there, that they appeared.

All that said, this week, my long-suffering English major heart enjoyed a glimmer of hope when, as I was speaking with the CEO of a company I was trying to get interested in our service, he said something to the effect of "...so it becomes an albatross around their necks."

Coleridge! I thought.  He knows Coleridge!

It's not every day I hear a Romantic poet quoted in everyday business conversation, let me tell you.

And so, to hasten the end of this dreadful month and move happily forward into warmer weather, longer days, and better ability to just get people on the bloody phone and do our jobs, I shall leave you with a little snippet of the poem he was referencing:

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!To Mary Queen the praise be given!She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,That slid into my soul. -"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"


Goodnight, folks.  Happy March!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 27: Apologies.

This week's been rough, y'all. This whole month has, really. And I haven't been handling it well. I've been whiny and petulant and needy and angsty and temperamental. I've complained more than I've comforted, by far. I've gossiped where I should have been graceful. I've responded with consternation instead of with consideration. I've been selfish. And I'm ashamed.

I was at a Rob Thomas concert a few years ago, back when his last solo album came out. Before he sang "Little Wonders," he told us his dog had actually inspired the song. 

"I was feeling all depressed and annoyed at the time, I remember," he said, "But when I got the leash to take my dog on a walk, he was so happy he could hardly stand it. We walked all around and he sniffed everything and had to check everything out and he was just so damn joyful just to be walking with me. And I thought, I am such an asshole. I came home and wrote this song."

I've been working long hours this week, getting home later than normal and collapsing. I haven't been playing with Lottie or paying attention to her as much as usual. Tonight, tired of sitting around all week, I asked her, "Sweetheart, do you want to go on a walk?"

She got so excited that she started darting back and forth and all around the house the way she does when she just can't contain herself with glee. As I was strapping on her harness (which took three tries because she kept wiggling out of my grasp in her happiness), I remembered Rob's story. And in that moment, I felt humbled. I am such an asshole.

Please forgive me. That's all I can really ask. 

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 26: Failure.

Everyone, I have to apologize. Work is crazy busy, I'm overwhelmed, and Lottie is all "I have no mother!" because of how late I've been getting home this week. It's the end of the month and I'm in sales. We have quotas, people. QUOTAS. I'm actually pecking this blog post out on my iPhone because I'm so tired I literally can't go back downstairs and turn the computer on for 5 minutes.

I'll be back with a (real) new post tomorrow - I promise!

Until then, pull up Pandora and listen to "O Danny Boy" in my honor. I love that song - it's hauntingly beautiful.

Onward to Thursday!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 25: Come on, PURR!

“Purr!!  Come on, PURR, you little mutt!”

My boyfriend Tate loves cats.  Unfortunately, we’re both allergic to them, but alternately he is slowly warming up to my Lottie.   Up until now, he hasn’t been her biggest fan because by virtue of her size, her bark is high-pitched and hurts his ears; plus, I’m guilty of spoiling her just a bit.  I think it’s more that he’s had to come to terms with the fact that he’s dating a single mom than anything else, really.

Everyone loves Lottie eventually, though.  She’s just that amazing.

Sunday afternoon, as we were on the couch catching up on the show we watch together, “Almost Human,” Lottie snuggled between us and rolled over onto her back so he could rub her belly.  I watched this moment play out in delight, struggling to conceal my happiness that he was finally taking to her.

Tate petted Lottie absentmindedly for awhile; then, during a commercial, he seemed to take more notice.  “Come on, purr!”

The thing is...toy poodles don’t purr.

Not wanting him to be disappointed, and relishing in this heretofore unseen moment of affection between them (Lottie snuggles up against him regularly, not understanding the concept of a person who doesn’t like her because it’s literally never happened before, but he’s taken a bit longer to come around), I tried to produce a guttural, purring sound in the back of my throat.  It sounded more like I was choking on a hairball.

“Purrrrrhrhghghghrrrrrrr,” I growled.

Tate looked at me in surprise. I immediately stopped and made my eyes super wide.  “Oh my gosh, she’s PURRING!”

He burst into laughter.

“You sound like you’re hocking something up!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  She was purring!”

“You’re a goober,” he said, shaking his head.

He continued petting her and I continued to try to make purring sounds, to little avail.  Eventually I had to stop because, well, phlegm.

After Tate left, I was thinking about closely that relates to our relationship with God at times.  We want to hear from God.  We want a neon sign from Heaven.  We want direction, or clarity, or blessings, or answers.  We want purring.

Come on, God, purr!

But sometimes God doesn’t purr.  Sometimes God is like a little toy poodle who just snuggles up against us and shows us His love that way.

And shouldn’t that be enough?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 24: Ummmm...

"How do you know which are the best deals?" a male voice to my right inquired.

I was standing at the meat cooler at the back of Food Lion, sifting through different types of ground beef: 93/7, 85/15, 80/20.  Tubes in perfectly portioned pounds.  Packages with a little more, a little less, a bit here and there, weighed out.  I was concentrating.

Last week, seeing that my team was suffering though malaise because of snow days and a general inability to just get anyone on the phone so we could, y'know, do our jobs, I decided the thing I could do would be to cook something.  We can have a team lunch! I thought. It'll be awesome!

So, a week ago, I sent an email out to my whole team titled "ITALIAN FEAST!" and now there's a conference room booked and my coworkers are bringing sides and oh yeah, I remembered this afternoon...I should probably go get the stuff to make the lasagna.

I was getting ready to make a decision when this perfectly pleasant man decided to strike up a conversation.

Now, mind you, at this point in my life I'm usually fine in random social interactions.  I talk on the phone to 50 strangers every day, for crying out loud.  I'm no longer the awkward, shy, bumbling child I used to be.  I'm lovely - chatty, even - most of the time.  My manager said he wanted to hire me after the first time we spoke on the phone because you just can't fake that.

But sometimes, it's late and I've worked for 10 hours and all I want to do is get out of this store and go home to my dog and curl up away from all human contact and there's a stranger talking to me.

"Umm, I, uh...I'm just looking at them," I stammered, wondering in that moment why I was even nervous.

"I'm usually a this type of guy," he pointed at the 70/30 ground round in the right hand corner of the cooler, "But I know it's not as good for me."

I didn't really know how to respond.  It was like I had forgotten how to have a conversation.

Suddenly I was aware that I was blocking almost all the other selections.  "Oh, I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

The man looked at me like I had just apologized for existing.  "No!  I'm just...trying to be friendly."

"Oh, sure!" I answered, and rambled out some long winded explanation about how I was getting beef for a "work thing" and how it was going in a recipe and I just wanted to get the best one...but at that point the more I spoke, the less he seemed to care.  The awkwardness hung thick in the air as if an invisible dense fog had enveloped that meat cooler.

I reached back in, shifted one of the packages to the left, grabbed it, and hurried away down the pasta aisle.

There's this thing that Suzanne "Crazy Eyes" does in Orange is the New Black where she hits herself in the temple over and over for being so stupid, and that's just such a perfect representation of how I feel a large portion of the time, I can't even tell you.

I don't get it; I really don't.  I can speak to strangers all day and be as smooth as a frog's belly.  (Now there's an image.)  I can go into a restaurant and strike up a random conversation with the server that spans the hour of a meal.  I even bantered with the checkout guy at Food Lion like ten minutes later! 

And yet, sometimes, I get the better of myself and forget how to speak.  Or think I'm in someone's way.  Or apologize for existing.

I can only hope, as I get older, that this will happen less and less...or else I'm going to have to start smacking myself in the temple in public.  That should help the awkwardness, right?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 23: I'm not bitter.

I've been reading a new book called "Meaty," written by Samantha Irby.  It's honest, vulnerable, heartbreaking, and hilarious, and I can't seem to put it down.

She writes a lot about dating and the tragicomedy it is, which I can totally identify with in so many ways.  She says she's been in love seven times.  I've been in love twice, maybe three times - but definitely twice.  Neither of those relationships worked out.

At 31, after nearly 15 years of dating and almost all of those experiences ending in jagged, devastating heartbreak, I was reading this book when I stumbled across one of the most starkly truthful narratives I've ever seen.  I have to share it, because I could've written it.  These could've been my words as easily as they are hers.

The language is a little salty, so please forgive it; but it's raw and honest and real.  Sam Irby, I feel you.

Bitter.  Scariest word in the entire dictionary.  Meanest word there ever was.  Nastiest tasting word to have in your mouth.  I would almost rather be called a cunt, right to my fucking face, than to have some dismissive asshole refer to me as bitter.  I'm not bitter, I survived a liar.  I'm not bitter, I weathered a cheater.  I'm not bitter, I sustained a massive injury to the giant, bloody muscle in the center of my chest that is responsible for pumping blood through my entire body.  So this hostility you've encountered isn't the result of my ingesting too many sugar-coated romantic comedies and metabolising them into virile hatred for real-life men with all of their salt and their human mistakes.  That would be amazing, if I could just skip weathering all of this heartbreak to instead compare and contrast every prospective boyfriend against the character Denzel played in that one movie I liked.  But no, I came by these feelings honestly.  And I don't accept bitter.  Wounded, yes.  Traumatized, sure.  Grieving, okay.  Anything other than bitter.  I put too much work in to be callously tossed aside as bitter.  Bitter is for someone who hasn't earned it. -"Meaty," page 26

Bitter is for someone who hasn't earned it.

Sam Irby has.  And I have, too.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 22: The more I see.

Today has been one full of reading, of thinking, and yes, even of praying.  I have quite a bit that I'm turning over and over in my mind and heart tonight.  I don't have much extra mental energy tonight, but I thought I'd share one of my favorite Lizzie Bennet quotes from Pride and Prejudice - one that I find scrolling through my thoughts quite often as I get older:

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.” 

Jane Austen is the wittiest and sharpest writer I've ever read; she's also, often, the most un-apologetically truthful.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 21: Show me how to go.

I'm sorry this post is so late.  Technically, I'm writing it in the wee hours of the morning on February 22nd, but hopefully you'll all let that slide just this once.

I had the great pleasure of catching up with a friend after work tonight - in fact, this is the first time I've even really been at my computer all day.  I'm sleepy and ponderous after hours of talking about faith and challenges and God's will.  So, to honor our conversation, here's a hymn that I first heard when visiting her church a couple of years ago.  Its beauty haunts me.

Shepherd, show me how to go
         O'er the hillside steep,
How to gather, how to sow, —
         How to feed Thy sheep;
I will listen for Thy voice,
         Lest my footsteps stray;
I will follow and rejoice
         All the rugged way.

Thou wilt bind the stubborn will,
         Wound the callous breast,
Make self-righteousness be still,
         Break earth's stupid rest.
Strangers on a barren shore,
         Lab'ring long and lone,
We would enter by the door,
         And Thou know'st Thine own;

So, when day grows dark and cold,
         Tear or triumph harms,
Lead Thy lambkins to the fold,
         Take them in Thine arms;
Feed the hungry, heal the heart,
         Till the morning's beam;
White as wool, ere they depart,
         Shepherd, wash them clean. -"Feed My Sheep," by Mary Baker Eddy

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 20: Seeing more clearly.

“Wow, these are old,” my optometrist said, peering skeptically at the box of contacts I had brought in for my contact lens fitting.  “We can definitely get you a way better fit than these.”

It’s a pleasant fact of my current existence that I have, quite inadvertently, surrounded myself with dreamboat men to help me get through the mundane trivialities of adult life.  After more than a decade of suffering through a painfully awkward teenage experience and a bumbling early young adulthood, I can somehow now banter easily with men who even a few years ago I’d have been too shy to speak to at all.   My massage therapist is one; my eye doctor is another. The feeling I get when I inevitably deliver some deadpan one-liner that leaves them helpless with laughter is immensely gratifying, let me tell you.  It’s like a sigh of relief after years of holding my breath.

My optometrist is a strapping young man who hails from the same area as my hometown in Pennsylvania.  At my first appointment a few months ago, right after he walked in and shook my hand, I declared, “So bad news: I think I scared your assistant because I’m practically blind.”  He took to me immediately.

“I’m surprised they would even refill this prescription for you after so long,” he mused, shaking his head as he stared in disbelief at the contacts I used.  “I guess because you’re, uh…nice…they figured it was okay.  I definitely wouldn’t have refilled a prescription after four years!”

I tried to look innocent.  “Uh, yeah, about that, so…I really hate the air puff test, so, uh...I just used the same prescription.  It reminds me of dodge-ball in elementary school.”

He chuckled as he updated my file in a tablet-like device that made me feel like we were in Sick Bay on the star ship Enterprise.  “Well, these will be a huge improvement.  They’re much more breathable and comfortable.”

After a few more questions and mournful wails from me when he said my eyes are probably too bad to undergo Lasik, he walked me out to the receptionist where I proceeded to spend half a month’s rent on the exam fee and a year’s supply of these new lenses he recommended.  The chipper girl at the desk put in an order for them to be delivered to my house.  Presumably, for the first time in four years, I’d be able to see more clearly.

Seven business days later, they arrived at my house, and this morning, I pulled back the little foil lid that always makes you feel like you’re opening a tiny present and shoved them into my eyes excitedly.

I’ve been walking around in them all day, and honestly, unless I think about it, I can’t really tell much difference so far.  I haven’t noticed my eyes getting dry as much as usual, even though I was at work a whole hour later than normal today.  And, if I really stop to focus, I can tell my vision is sharper – but it all kind of blends together, really.

Maybe that’s what seeing more clearly is all about – it’s minute, gradual, and not really earth-shattering when it finally happens.  Just one day, you wake up and put on slightly better lenses.

But that tiny little improvement, well, it makes all the difference.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 19: I am worth more.

"That's why I love sales," my manager said, leaning over the little wall of my cubicle and grinning slightly, the way he does when he's sharing a truism.  "To do a job like this, you have to have yourself together.  You have to be self-assured enough - you have to have a sense of your own value and know your own worth and be secure in that - to do it well."

As I've mentioned, my manager is a smart guy.  We seem to have a strength of communication and exchange of ideas, he and I.  Even so, in that moment, I froze inside.  I nodded in agreement as he kept talking, waxing philosophical as he often does...but inside, my mind was racing.

You have to have a sense of your own value. You have to know your own worth.

If we had stayed together, today would have been my two-year anniversary with my ex-boyfriend.

There was never really a time, from the Friday evening we met at the beginning of October 2011, that we weren't dating, but he hemmed and hawed at making it official for four months - probably, again, out of fear.

I'd been thinking about that today, off and on.  During the busy bustle of the office, amidst phone conversations and notes and emails and tasks, whenever I took a moment to pause, to breathe - the date swirled around me.  Memories pulled off their cloaks like dusty statues and showed their faces again.

Know your own value.  Know your own worth.

I remembered that, shortly following our breakup, he checked a dating site in my living room as I made him breakfast the morning after I helped him pack his late father's truck so he could move three hours away.

I remembered that he spent my 30th birthday party three months later texting with another woman.

I remembered that he didn't even bother to call the weekend before my best friend - and one of his very good friends, as well - went to prison for seven years.

Know your own value.  Know your own worth.

I remembered all those things, and I've come to a conclusion.

I am worth more.