Exciting Announcement! :)

Hello, My People!

    I've purposely shut down this blog the last six months, and here's the reason why: I've started over with a clearer blogging vision and plan and earlier this month launched Lipstick & Gelato! I hope you'll join me over there for discussions on food, fashion, and art! Still me, still doing life, just under a new blog-heading which I hope will go far in inspiring women everywhere to find the beauty in ordinary life! Head over and check it out, and may "The BBC" rest in peace. ;)

The Night My Future Dreams Came True

Each month, hundreds of texts speed between my phone and that of my best friend, Katie. I am not addicted to texting in general but when it comes to keeping up with my alter-ego who lives near Atlanta, daily conversations via text are an absolute must. It is my one vice, if you can call it that. Those of you who have long-distance best friends will understand how a person who lives half a nation away can know you as well if not better than some family members. If Katie takes a technology detox for the weekend or I'm out of cell reception for a few days, there is a world of business to catch up on when we return into communication. And not your legendary white-girl emoji wars or dumb chick-flick quote wars. We have real things to discuss. Trips to plan. Georgia State Senate sessions to cover. Parties to report on. Fashion advice to dispense. Prayer to be requested. An ear to which we can vent. Art and history to discuss. Movies to recommend and then shout over. In an only half-joking way, Katie is my sanity.

But this is not a post about how much I value my sassy, Southern friend because much as I wouldn't mind soliloquizing, you mightn't enjoy hearing it. Just for fun, I asked Katie to describe in three sentences her dream life six years from now: where she'd be, what she'd be doing, who she would have in her life. Then I did the same for my own life, rattling off the first mental picture that came to mind:

“I will be my own version of Elizabeth Burke: a 28 year-old Mama to a little girl with light brown curls (age three) and an auburn-haired baby boy, perhaps ten months old. I will live in an 1800's farmhouse with a husband who works somehow with his hands. My writing will have fallen a little by the wayside but I will still keep it up and I will spend my days making beauty out of everything: food, my home, the people around me, my art, my words; I will keep a blog of all this and photograph the food and share the stories and make a quiet place for frantic readers to rest a while.

That will be me. In three sentences. If I went on longer I could tell you of the children's books I write and the roses twining up the trellis which I jealously tend, and the little streets in the town nearby where I take airings with my babies.”

Katie and I both know our lives in six years will probably be quite different than we think they ought to be from our vantage point pre-2021. That dream I share above is a fond dream but I am conscious that it might not be my reality. That there will be something different and something better that I can't see from here. But for now, the dream is beautiful and tantalizing and last night it felt so ridiculously close. I knew our game was dangerous but I didn't realize how dangerous until I spoke that dream into being, sent the text, and watched the scenario play out in my head.

It was almost as if I stood on the other side of a pane of glass separating me from the life of which I dream. If I could break through the glass—even tap on it and get the attention of the players on the other side—surely, surely they would notice and see me and invite me in. The little girl with soft brown curls would light up with joy to see her Mama, and the baby boy would giggle, lift chubby arms and bring them down chubby-handed on the soft bread dough left to rise in the sunlight shifting through the wavy glass of the old windows. But I'm here, in the first few months of 2015, and that vision is only a fancy of mine. Six years will tell whether those good, good things are my good, good things, or whether they are only fancies. Frustration curved through my breast-bone and hurt me. The feeling was not simple discontentment, out of which I can easily talk my myself, but impatience. I could see, hear, taste, feel that six-year dream through the glass and by George I wanted to break the pane. I refused Katie's invitation to browse Pinterest with her and send each other photographic evidence of that dream life and instead went up to bed. There, I pulled my heavy, battered Bible off my nightstand onto my lap and breathed a prayer for the families of the 21 martyrs in Libya whose hearts are aching. Yes, my heart ached with the impatience to see the underside of tomorrow, to flip the future on its back and see what it has in store for me, but their hearts are breaking with the fact that their husband/brother/son/best friend was severed from this life by the sword of an enemy of our Christ. I flipped the pages of my Bible to the Psalms, to my sweet-spot in the Scriptures where no matter what I'm feeling, I am assured of finding comfort. This night, I found my eyes running over the familiar words of Psalm 16. Just running ahead. Running and running and running ahead like my mind. Not comprehending, not understanding, not trying to understand. Just running because it did not want to wait for fear of missing out.

I pulled my Bible closer, read the words aloud, smoothed the crinkled pages with impatient fingers and took it slower. Through the opening plea for God's protection, through the assurance of the end of wickedness, through the declarations of love to the Lord. And at the very end, deep in the back-verses of this old-faithful Psalm, I found my answer:

“You will show me the path of life;
In Your presence is fullness of joy;
At Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” (Ps. 16:11)

I curled into the warmth of my bed and smiled at the arrest of my heart which had finally stopped running, finally started listening. Oh, the irony of Christ! The impatience driven into my chest by my six-year dream was foolish but not wrong. I saw myself now as the curly-headed little girl in my own dream, clinging to her Papa's hand and begging, “Hurry up, please! We'll be LATE.”

As a child, did you ever hurry ahead of the adults, perhaps toward a scene of infinite pleasure and delight, only to realize quite pink-faced that you didn't know the route and might, perhaps, miss the “Way-In” by insisting on taking the lead? My current impatience was stemming from excitement rather than discontent just as the little girl's frantic tugging on her Papa's hand stems more from the glossy allure of promised joys than any real crossness with her parent. Much as if my Papa had settled his big, daddy-hand over my tangled curls and told me we'll get there when we get there, God's word settled on my heart.

He will show me the path of life. (Application: I can't find my way to the future alone)

In His presence is fullness of joy. (Application: My joy depends on teaming up with a Traveling Companion.)

At His right hand are pleasures forevermore. (Application: the pleasure and delight I crave and anticipate can only be found by tucking my little, sweaty fist into his great, calloused palm and agreeing to take it at His pace.)

Boil down my six-year dream and what essential components do I find? A joy in appreciating and creating beauty. A full and loving life. Pleasure taken in simple things. All the components I am promised in God's own living and breathing Word if I'll have a little patience, please. He has promised me joy and purpose and pleasure which is the core of what I want. For though the particulars of God's plan might look very different than the particulars of my six-year dream, I am promised the heart of it. And for that matter, the heart of it requires no waiting. It can be and is mine already:

A joy in appreciating and creating beauty.

A full and loving life.

Pleasure taken in simple things.

Then, for heaven's sake, the future is today and today is tomorrow and maybe this is the thing on which real fulfillment hinges: that we ought never to hurry ahead because there is no ahead just yet. Ahead is chance and a gamble and an imagination. Life is only real in the exact moment we hold it in our hands and to rush ahead would be to leave all the realness behind to chase vapors.

Flushed with the simple GENIUS of this revelation, I texted Katie the verse and an explanation with as eager a spirit as when I'd texted her the six-year dream. And then? Saccharine as such an admission seems, I went to sleep with a heart as quiet and full as if the six-year dream had been dropped in my lap in all its pretty fullness. And really, in a way, it had been. May we all learn to walk in pace with the only One who knows the real Way-In.

Wake Up Right: Leaving Margin

"So wake up, wake up, wake up all you sleepers, stand up, stand up, stand up all you dreamers, hands up, hands up, hands up all believers take up your cross, carry it on."

"Wake Up" All Sons & Daughters

On the relatively calm sea-shore that is my little group of lifestyle-blogging friends, the topic of Breakfasts has been frontward in our minds. Jenny of Adonis Ephemeral  spoke on the importance of starting your day off with a proper roundhouse kick of protein and fresh produce. On Instagram, Carmel , Jenny, several other friends and I have a sort of on-going breakfast contest. Who can eat the best and brightest breakfast and post a photo of it before the others. Actually, we inspire each other to new heights of healthy breakfasts and I'm such a foodie that I honestly look eagerly for Jenny's latest wacky creation. This whole conversation has got me thinking about my morning routine and why I get up two hours before leaving for work.

To someone who is not a morning person, the idea of setting one's alarm (and responding to it) at 6:30 when one doesn't have to leave the house until 8:30 is pure madness. I know. I had this conversation on Thursday night with my sister who, God bless her, manages to wake up twenty minutes before go-time and still look fabulous walking out the door. Believe me, I tried. I tried waking up at 7:30, doing a ten-minute workout, putting myself together, eating breakfast, and leaving. I even got to work on time most mornings but I was harried in spirit. I didn't feel relaxed. I felt late. I felt like there was absolutely eight-five-million things I had forgotten to do or take or remember before leaving the house. I couldn't very well meddle with work times so I began to fiddle about with my wake-up call. The magic number revealed itself: two hours.

At first it felt like an extravagance. Two hours. Who needs two hours to get ready in the morning? But I began to realize something about myself: these two hours were a strategic move. With two hours, I have leisure time. I can wake up, check the notifications on my phone, get out of bed, and get ready without stabbing my eye with the mascara wand in my haste. I have time to take a shower or if dry shampoo is all that's called for, I can spend extra time on my eyeliner. I can choose my outfit slowly (because I always forget to pick it out the night before) and read my Bible. I head downstairs at 7:30, wide awake and feeling fresh. If the weather is amenable (and I can stand many varieties of weather), I take the dog and get out for a walk. At this time of year the briskness of the dawn hour drives me to walk even faster. In half an hour I can manage at mile and a half, which is really nothing to sneeze at. I get home with half-an-hour to spare and am able to fix myself a thoughtful breakfast and a cup of tea. Favorite breakfasts include:

cranberry-almond quinoa

hummus spread on sprouted grain toast & fruit

avocado & olive oil on sprouted grain toast

plain greek yogurt with all-fruit jelly & granola

one easy-over egg on sprouted grain toast & a kiwi

halved avocado filled with greek yogurt & bacon crumbles

something brilliant leftover from last night's dinner

sliced tomato, sliced cheese, & a handful of raw nuts

"omelette eggs": scrambled eggs with mushrooms, onion, & peppers

Meat is an awesome thing to have at breakfast, but when you live in a large family, there is usually very little of it leftover outside of pre-existing meal plans. If there is leftover chicken breast or salmon or roast, I will add that to my breakfast because I like to get protein outside of dairy sources and at work, dairy sources are the main protein option.

While I eat breakfast, I will usually finalize lesson plans or get in some reading time. By the time 8:30 rolls around, I am fully awake, in a bright mental state, and feeling ready to attack whatever the day brings me. Even if it's Monday. 

Why I Should Write Screenplays Instead of Novels

Proof That I Ought to Write Comedic, Romantic Screenplays, Not Novels

Point One: I'm a Dreamer

 I have dreams, and then I have vivid dreams. There are dreams that feel like dreams and then there are dreams that feel realer than real life. Do yours have that distinction? The best part about these vivid dreams are the fact that in most cases, they are full of things I have never before felt, or at a depth I have never felt them and with no exceptions, they come unexpectedly and have nothing to do with what I assume I will dream about. My brain somehow concocts the most intricate pieces of entertainment from my subconscious and imagination. As I sleep, I live them. A dream-dream will fade within the first hour of my waking up. Sometimes, if I'm jostled awake too abruptly by my "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" alarm, I'll forget them in an instant. But the vivid dreams exist as if preserved by some good fairy's charms. They aren't always romantic dreams either--once I had to be the assistant of a wordless FBI agent. I have run a week before on the fumes of a vivid dream just as I would if it was a real experience. They don't come often--perhaps every several months--but when they come, they are a delight. I had one the other night. I'll skip the details except for telling you that it was a perfectly innocent dream of a slightly-famous and highly-attractive man moving into the house across the road and falling in love with me. At one point in the dream he took my hand and laced his fingers through mine and, laughing, took me into the house to meet his parents and his eight year old niece.

I wish I could describe to you just how real it felt. Everything, from the feel of his fingers between mine to the slightly-stupid question I asked at the beginning when his sudden tenderness toward me sent me into much warm-cheeked confusion, felt extremely calm and real. Which is hilarious, because I've never met this person or had someone hold my hand that way, and the people who live in the house across the street have been there since we moved in. All the details are ones I have never consciously considered. The reality of the dream continued when, after visiting with the man's parents, I checked my phone and realized that it was 11:30 and I had needed to be at work by 9:00. I pulled a Cinderella then and fled the scene, sending a panicked text to my boss with something along the lines of, "Sorry I'm late--a really sweet/handsome man started talking to me and I thought it had only been fifteen minutes!"

Such a lame excuse, isn't it?

But I love dreams like this. I spent the entire day after that dream feeling loved and cherished and excited about something...what was it? Oh yeah. That ridiculously vivid dream. I laughed to myself over it, then told it to my siblings where it was laughed over and taunted further. One of my sisters put together a love-lorn playlist and we danced around the kitchen, putting dinner together to the tune of "Not That Girl" and "Marry Me." The point of this post so far is to let you in on my frame of mind before socking you with...

Point Two: I'm queen of serendipitous hilarity

Because, though fun, not only was our kitchen dance session amazingly pathetic but the reason for my flushed cheeks and starry eyes was some dumb dream about someone I will never meet and never think about without provocation. Still, I have told you before that I'm easily satisfied with small things and if it is pitiable that having a dream about someone holding my hand and saying pretty things to me sets me up for a fortnight, at least I'm not hard to please. As I have said, I felt quite airy and blushy this day and the dancing only made it feel more real. Whenever this sort of dream-thing begins to happen in real life, I already know I'm going to be hilarious. I'm going to be the person who is smiling about nothing. I'll be perfectly functional, but everyone will know I am in love. I mean, seriously: I'm made happier than a caterpillar in May to have a dream about something I didn't know I wanted.

I had almost gotten this ridiculous mood out of my system when I took my littlest brother upstairs to change into pajamas. In my room, I found my cat and she looked so sleepy and cuddly that I felt like rummaging her awake and dragging her into my fine humor. I get like this sometimes: I can't leave the cat alone, even if she's sleeping peacefully. I just have to bounce her. So I plopped on the bed beside her, then laced her paw through my fingers and continued the conversation from the dream with my other hand stroking her fine ruff.

And then it happened. The part I couldn't have scripted any better if I'd been writing that screenplay:

Just as I got to the cleverest part of the dream conversation and had almost determined to finish waking the cat by scooping her into my arms and dancing Aurora-wise about the room to annoy her, the dratted beast began to hack up a hairball. Not your normal, easy-going hairball. This one must have been lodged and stuck and never gonna come out, no sir.

"HACK, HACK, HUCKKKKKKK. HACK, HACK." 

I un-laced her paw. I sat up straight. I started to laugh.

"HURKKKKKK, HACK, HACK, HYUCK."

I dumped the choking animal unceremoniously on the floor and watched her body convulse. Get it out, darlin'. My little brother joined the circus and tweeted--yes, tweeted like a bird--every time she hacked and giggled in between It was quite the chorus, I tell you:

"HUCK"

*tweet!*

"HACCCCKKK"

*tweet*

That twinkly, rose-flavored feeling from the day--that in-love for no good reason about no real person--belongs strictly to dreams. It's wonderfully pleasant and I look forward with delight to the rare occasions when I get a vivid dream instead of the whisked-away sort. But the truth is, it's all imaginary. There is no guy in my life who wants to hold my hand and take me to meet his parents and tour his childhood home and laugh over the fact that we're standing in the front yard together and I really just asked if his windows had a good view. No one like that. Not yet. He might be on his way, but he isn't here and the house across the street boasts a tubby country boy and his slender wife and his little-man son and the only person who holds my hand is the three year old on her way to go potty. So while the vividness of the dream is a good substitute for things I have never experienced, the real parts of my life are much more realistic and quite hilarious.

 I'm not a Cinderella or an Aurora and I'm pretty sure that when my man comes, he'll probably not fit the description of the amazing man from the dream (you won't guess who it is. If you do guess, I won't tell you. But it isn't Tom Hiddleston) and he probably won't be your classic Prince Charming. In many ways, he'll probably be better. But I have one requirement for the elusive fella:

He'd better be up for dance parties and hair-balls.

Romance: Tulle & Hammered Gold

This morning as I got dressed in our walk-in closet, I observed to my sister that I always laugh when I think of how adamant opinions on trivial things are so apt to change. In my life I have loudly held many opinions that have gone, if not quite the opposite in recent years, at least swung that way. I used to swear I would never marry a man even half a year younger than myself. Now in my twenties, age gaps are shockingly non-issues between friends who are in the same season of life. I used to swear that I would never wear leggings. I now wear leggings frequently, though I still refuse to wear them instead of pants. And then we come to the Tulle Skirt. I once vowed that they looked idiotic and that I would never wear them...and I'm here today to confess that not only have I wanted a tulle skirt for a year now, but that last week I bought one and convinced my friend to buy one for herself too. 

Today, I went all-neutrals except for my mint-colored purse which possesses just enough winter to make it cheeky January-wear. The day is freezing and windy and not exactly shoot-photos-while-wearing-a-floaty-tulle-skirt kind of day so Benjamin very sweetly obliged to take a couple quick shots. I am therefore not responsible for any odd-looking poses or faces. ;)

 In honor of the store where I invested in this skirt (invested is the right word...it was 'spensive, though not so pricey as every other tulle skirt I've seen) which was called BohoBlu, I did a criss-crossy French Braided thing with my hair that looks quite luscious and gives the impression of never-ending tresses.

I don't why my face looks so angelic here.

 The fun of neutrals is that you get to pair lots of textures and patterns and it will all coordinate nicely. A beige cardigan from New York & Co., a fashion tee from Kohl's, a rose-gold belt around the tulle skirt, and second-hand snake-skin shoes complete the look. Gold jewelry accents add a little pizzazz to keep the outfit from looking too old-baptist piano-player, right?

I love the fairy-shadows my tulle creates!

Though this is photo is poor in quality, you can see that I went with a makeup scheme that defies winter: a palette of peach, aqua, a raspberry lip. January blues? Nah. We've got tulle and hammered gold.

Do you have a tulle skirt? And if so, how do you style it? I'm looking forward to playing around with mine...might even look into buying a crinoline to give it extra "poof." I'm sure that I'll have lots more style combinations to share as the year wears on. That was the great fun of investing in this piece: it's quite transitional for every season.

Skirt: BohoBlu

Tee: Kohl's

Cardigan: New York & Co.

Belt: Lace Affair

Shoes: hand-me-down

Happy Wednesday!

The Pros, Cons, and Laughy-Bits Of Being A Nanny

A friend recently asked me if I thought she would be a good fit for a nannying position, and whether I liked mine. The short answer to both questions is "yes," but before advising someone into a career that requires consistency, high-energy, loads of creativity, and much responsibility (you're dealing with someone's kids, not insurance policies, groceries, someone's double-shot-latte-extra-hot, car repairs, or shoe size), I gave her some general advice about what worked so well with my job: my current boss interviewed me in person, then sent me a 30-question interview to fill out at leisure with some rather deep questions. At first, I worried she might be super type-A, high-maintenance, and a pain to work for. Then I remembered that the friend I got the reference from would have brooked nothing of the sort and had loved the job. My fears mostly eased, I filled out those questions, sent them in, and have been happily working with Sharon for the last nine months. She's the most wonderful, inspiring boss I could ask to work for. She loves her kids fiercely and is a clear communicator. What I had originally perceived as control-freak actually was a healthy-minded person laying out clear expectations so that neither of us got to the ninth month and looked back with dissatisfaction. I love my job. I won't say it's for everyone. A less-skilled person my age in my field of nanny-teacher-chief-cook-and-bottle-washer might find it overwhelming. I am pooped by the end of a work week and ready for my days off, but it is incredibly rewarding.

And every position is different. If you are looking at applying for what one person calls a "nanny," you might really be in for well-paid babysitting. In the case of another good friend, she's half chauffeur, half play-mate, with a dash of housekeeper thrown in. Just as each family is different, each job will have different requirements, expectations, and situations. And these things will change depending on the age and number of kids in the family. So I'm afraid I can't advise anyone straight out that they would definitely be a good fit for that nanny job. I'd have to know a whole lot more about the given situation than I do. There are, however, a number of truths universally acknowledged by The Surrogate Mother Trade (nannies). In an effort to humorously advise other people thinking of applying for a nannying position, I've drawn up a list of pros and cons to be considered:

Your name either comes up in one long string of Not-Listening ("Miss Rachel. Miss Rachel? Miss RACHEL. MissRachelMissRachelMissRachelllllllll?") or not at all ( "Miss Daddy,""Miss Mommy," "Miss Nammaw," and a great many other names that are variations on the theme).
Your body is not your own. Or at least, I have to work super hard to make it so. They're kids. They are going to poke and prode you multiple times a day and block up doorways to make it nearly impossible for you to go through. I'm accustomed to a certain level of it with my younger siblings and am slowly coaching Lila and Sophy out of it. But really, they're going to pile into your lap during book-time and flop on your back and thighs and arms and ankles when you're anywhere close to the vicinity of the floor. your knees will develop spots from constant kneeling at toddler-level to play games and "do it again." They're also going to share their sneezes, yawns, coughs, toots, and whatever else with you. Welcome to a taste of motherhood.
Just because you have no "moves" does not mean you get out of dance parties. Seriously. When the three year old can break it down and shake it off better than you can at twenty-two, you might have serious thoughts about quitting. Sorry. The whole fun of a dance-party is to show off your prowess to the adult and have the adult show off their ridiculousness to you. I've got the ridiculousness down.
There's no filter on the opinions. "Miss Rachel, I'm really thinking that looks like a lamb." (referencing an Arctic fox I drew.) "That definitely looks more like a turtle. That looks like a lung." (Couldn't she see my elaborate pancake-batter babydoll and breaching orca?)
The parents will show up at the most awkward (for you) moments. Burned the toast? The father will appear and jovially comment on the house smelling of burnt popcorn. Child (unbeknownst to you) has transgressed, will confess first opportunity in front of mother: "I been doin' bad sings, Mommy." Spent the last half-hour with a leaf-mustache pretending to be an Italian named Fernando and chasing the girls? A parent will come out the back door to relieve you of duty just as you scream and dodge out from behind a bush.
Their particular phrases will start popping up in your speech.
"Lila, get your elbow out of my booby or get off my lap."
"I'm just takin' an eye on Sophy."
"Does anyone need to go potty before we head outside?"
"That's my booty, not yours, so stop slapping it. Slap your own booty all day if you want, but leave mine alone."
"Sophy, is your attitude having issues...?"
Doesn't matter how much you despise sports, you will be playing soccer, basketball, football (or all three) daily. I've played more sports in the past nine months than I have in my entire life, I feel. I'm actually a really good kicker, for a kindergarten-team.
You have no privacy. Really. It's your job to teach your wards that the bathroom door stays closed, preferably until the person exits or at least till you hear the sink running. Be specific. It's not water running that gives you permission to fling the doors open. It's the sink. There's a shocking difference. This is a trial-and-error lesson that seems to take eons for children to learn. Prepare to be embarrassed.

So far the rough parts. But then you have the particular joys that makes those drawbacks perfectly worth every moment. These include such things as...

You get to share in every new thing these kids learn. "Can I give you an eskimo sugars, Miss Rachel? Dey don't kiss like diss (lips puckered) because your lips would sweeze. So dey scrub noses." - or - "Hey, Miss Rachel. I drew an arrow from the killer whale to the polar bear because they eat polar bears, right?" (This kid figured out the food chain on her own. So smart.)
You get to be there for so many "firsts. At lunch today, I put a purple Hershey's kiss on Sophy's plate. She stared at it. "What is it?"
What is it? The blessed child had never had a Hershey's kiss--didn't recognize it as something even edible. I took it in hand, thinking of how her life would never be the same again, and pulled the little paper tab, unraveled the shining wrapper, and exposed the chocolate inside. Her eyes were so round and serious as she saw the explanation behind this sorcery. "Ohhhhh, Miss Rachel."
Your favorites become their favorites. I think I've single-handedly converted my girls to eating dill pickles, eating kiwi skins, dancing to the new Annie soundtrack, using expressions such as "You never can tell with bees," and "What you talkin' about, Willis?", using "divine" to describe food, reading chapter-books, singing certain book-songs in certain tunes, asking for the lipstick du jour swiped on their lips and then kissed on their hand first thing upon coming into the house.
They are always on your side. The same kiddo who beat your tail in Uno eight games in a row is thrilled to see you win one measly round with a luck Draw-Four. The one you just had to discipline will fling chubby arms around your neck and say perfectly seriously, "Miss Rachel, do you yuv me?" and then claim your lap for every book afterward. The girl who will probably grow up to be a brain surgeon or botanist listens to your explanation of an analog clock, then pensively turns back to you. "Miss Rachel, you are smart."
Everything you do and say becomes the law of the Medes and the Persians. Things you frequently tell them today will resurface when they are sixty-five. Watch them correct you when they notice the slightest bit of variance from the Way You Told It First and insistence that the way you do anything is always the best way. You might regret having started such a high-energy tradition, but you can't help but love their loyalty. So many traditions...the "pause" button. The "party" button. The "When Flushing" sign. The You-Must-Sing-To-Me-Before-I-Tell-You-A-Story deal. The "talk for that animal" game. Sticking my tongue out while cutting an onion so my mascara won't run. The movie quotes that pop up every time they say a certain phrase ("Forget about it. Big guy says move 'em, we move 'em.").
You have a chance to set a number of things straight: Pluto is a planet. The middle finger has a terribly important job: to snuggle next to your palm and keep it warm. The only version of Winnie-the-Pooh books that matter is the original text.
You have the benefit of a youthful perspective. It's a well-known fact: having children in your life keeps you young at heart. Surrounded daily by such innocence, peace, and cheerful naivete, the world seems half as scary as I've learned it to be. In their eyes, life is an adventure, everything is possible, and small kindnesses matter. It's a precious thing to have access to.

The Essential Wedding Hair-Do Kit

After last post, there was sufficient interest in learning what I consider the Must-Haves in a wedding hair-styling kit for me to bother rounding up my supplies and taking pictures and putting them into a collage. Thanks for that--I wanted to do the post so you gratified my wish. I will now act important and show you the eight items I believe make up the (basic) Essential Wedding Hair-Do Kit:

1. A curling iron: I have a simple, normal clamp-curling iron but I've heard that the curling wands are even better because you have the choice of how thick you want the curl to be! But honestly, a regular old clamp-iron works just as well when you know how to curl hair. Be certain, however, that you do know how to use it so you don't end up with a bunch of crimped ends and wonky ringlets.
2. Wave-clamps: you never know when you'll be working on a headful of hair that does not want to curl. These clamps are helpful in setting the look. Immediately after taking the hair off the curling iron, swirl it up to the head and clamp in place until completely cool. Spray, then take down.
3. Dry shampoo: I use Not Your Mother's "Clean Freak." Spraying this power into clean or day-old hair (which is easier to work with) provides a great base for teasing, poufing, and pinning. ALWAYS add dry shampoo or another texturizing product when working with updos.
4. Hairspray: the Aussie brand is a good way to go. Volumizing spray is also helpful. Spray the HECK out of the bridesmaids' heads, but only after they've approved the look. It's hard to un-spray hair and you don't want anyone to walk around all day wishing they looked different. After spraying, refrain from lighting a match.
5. A teasing comb: these combs have tiny teeth to help you get that va-voom in the styles. Backcomb gently for desired volume, then comb smooth the top of the hair, leaving a pretty little rat's nest beneath.
6. Curved bobbies: though regular bobby pins work well in most hair, I'm a fan of these curved bobbies by Conair because they follow the contour of the scalp and are much more comfortable to wear. When the bride or bridesmaids are wearing fifty+ bobby pins, you want it to be as comfortable as possible!
7. Clear elastics: a complete life-saver, you always want clear elastics to provide the stability of a hair-tie without the chunky color and visibility. You can easily find them in the hair-pin section of most stores. If for some reason you are having difficulty finding them, check the ethnic section. 
8. Hand-held mirror: obviously helpful for letting your "patient" see the back of her head, a hand-held mirror is a delightful and often-forgotten addition to the essential wedding hair-do kit.

And there you have it! Portable, light-weight, and efficient, these eight items will insure your ability to create nearly any style from French twist to chic chignon, from vintage curls to sophisticated buns and up-dos. Of course you can always add items to increase efficiency or create a certain style. At last weekend's wedding, the bridesmaids had all received snowflake-shaped crystal pins meant to be worn in their hair. At another wedding, if a bouffant bun is desired you might bring a foam ring or a sock. There are always additions one can make. My list is intended to be a list of the basics I now know to be necessities for anyone on their way to lend an artistic hand on someone's big day. I hope this helps take the trepidation out of preparing to play beauty-parlor. Remember! "Wedding Season" is right around the corner. ;)