Target, I have missed ye.

I just had the best day.

I woke up (without the jolt of an alarm clock) at 8:30am, and was in the car, ready to SHOP at 9:23am. Approximately.

I haven't gone shopping for fun in quite some time. Hampered by a budget (gag) and a guilty conscience (barf), I've been sticking mostly to the basics for the past few months while marveling at my ability to avoid my favorite stores.

Today, thanks to some Christmas money and the fact that my guilty conscience was apparently waiting for the alarm to sound, I ventured out to frolic amongst the sale racks and stimulate the economy.

While wandering through Target with no real agenda, I oohed and aah'd at all the lovely things - from toothbrush holders to Christmas decor to mascara. I selected a couple of modest items and then got a wild hair.

'I really want to splurge,' I said to myself. Myself didn't object, so I let my imagination run wild. Think of the things! I could buy! A new top for New Year's Eve. No, some new shoes. No, something fabulous for the house.

And then, in an instant, I knew what I wanted. The ultimate splurge item. Something I haven't indulged in for quite some time.

After an audible gasp, I headed straight for:


And no, I'm absolutely not kidding.

That one time when I saved the day.

Dictionary.com (one of my favorite websites) defines "redemption" as "deliverance; rescue; atonement for guilt." The feeling of redemption is a beautiful thing. Allow me to expound.

I revealed the perils of my short-lived theatrical career last week. Summary: I forgot my lines in the Christmas play and have been haunted ever since.

Last Sunday, the children at my church performed "Follow the Star", a lovely Christmas musical. I don't have pictures because I spent the entire 24-minutes of the play hunched down behind a hip-wall backstage, moving props and giving cues. (Side note: I'm too old to hunch for 24-minutes.)

ANYWAY.

At one point CJ, the 4th grade actor playing the part of the evil King Herod, forgot his lines. He was in the midst of using his best villain voice and suddenly he stopped. I instantly recognized the look of panic in his eyes. He fumbled, he flustered, he looked desperately at his cast mates for help. None could.

Now, I'm not usually one to help a villain, but I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of empathy for the pint-sized king. The hip-wall where I was hunched was, thankfully, within ear shot of CJ, so I was able to loudly whisper his lines. His eyes flew to me, filled with gratitude. With that, he was back on track.

The best part? The line that tripped him up?

"Ah, yes. I remember!"

The Ghost of Christmas Plays Past

"But what do we have to bring Him?"

Eight words. Eight simple words. Insignificant to many, but not to me. These eight words have haunted me since I forgot my lines in the church Christmas play when I was a kid. I froze. I forgot. I failed.

I think I was playing the part of some random stable animal or something...the details are fuzzy. What I do remember is that this particular scene was the set-up to singing Little Drummer Boy, and I ruined it. Miss Stacey, the play's director, was trying to mouth the words to me from across the stage. It did no good. To add injury to insult, my friend Annika elbowed me in the ribs. Hard. I felt the eyes of everyone on the stage staring at me, and I was sure the audience was moments away from taking up arms. I was totally lost.

After what seemed like HOURS, Miss Stacey mercifully gave up on me, signaled to the rest of the cast to move on, and my cast mates picked up where I left off.

After the spotlight turned it's attention elsewhere, I immediately remembered my lines and wanted to shout out loud..."BUT WHAT DO WE HAVE TO BRING HIM?!?!?"
_____

Over the next 8 days, I will witness three Christmas plays. I shall spend each moment perched on the edge of my seat, willing the actors to somehow remember all their lines, thus avoiding the years of agony that could follow a misstep.

The holidays sure are stressful.

Quack, quack.

Some embarrassing background related to my youth, before I delve into a story about last evening:

In 6th - 8th grades, I played the oboe in the middle school band. The oboe...I'll let you ponder that with furrowed brow for a few moments. What in the world would possess an 11-year-old to choose the oboe? Few have ever even heard of the instrument, much less aspired to learn how to play it. Though I can't pinpoint exactly what possessed me to choose the oboe, I do know that I spent the better part of the next 3 years trying to figure out exactly how it was supposed to sound. It always had a slightly shrill sound to me, not unlike that of an injured Canadian goose. Even after several early morning private lessons with Heather, the high school oboist, I never quite "got it." Then came the transition to high school, where I was forced to choose band or basketball, and I quickly abandoned my woodwind in favor of my terribly unflattering, baggy athletic shorts. My mom was thrilled.

Fast forward to last night, when I had the pleasure of attending a Christmas concert complete with 65-voice choir and orchestra. Amazing. But even more amazing was that I FINALLY got to hear what an oboe is supposed to sound like. It was quite enchanting. The oboist played many a beautiful solo. At first, I'm ashamed to admit, I couldn't quite pinpoint which instrument was making the beautiful music. Imagine my surprise when I realized...well...that's the OBOE! Not at ALL like a maimed goose.

How embarrassing.

I would now like to extend my heartfelt apology to Mr. Wally Conwrath and Mr. Ken White, my middle school band directors, for subjecting them to many an ear piercing rehearsal. No wonder they recommended private lessons...

My Christmas Wish

Christmas cards from far-flung friends and family have started to roll in, prompting me to feel guilty (again) this year for not sending any out. To compensate, I have lovingly composed the following Christmas poem. Consider it my virtual Christmas card, from my home to yours.

My Christmas Wish

All I want for Christmas is my ever-lovin’ mind,
I’d like – just for a single day – to leave my Peeves behind.

I’d like to smile politely when a dog invades my space,
Instead of wishing earnestly for a can of Mace.

Blinker-happy drivers make me gnash my teeth and weep.
The only outlet for my rage? A puny sounding “beep!”

It’s Christmas. Time for peace on earth and goodwill to all men.
But tell that to my racing mind. It doesn’t comprehend.

Instead, I see white pants and shoes while in the dead of winter.
Or find myself overcome by the way you order dinner.

I beat my printer (with closed fist) but no good does it do.
How’s this for spreading Christmas cheer: maybe I’ll just sue!

So feed the sea gulls! Use blue ink! And punctuate with glee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But take it easy when I’m near. It’s not easy being Peeved.

The end.

May your Christmas season be filled with laughter, love, and Peeves. The funny kind.

Border Wars

While out to eat a couple of months ago, Jeremy watched me arrange my french fries on my plate before asking, "Um...what are you doing?"

"I'm making a border fry," I answered innocently.

"A what?"

"You know. A border fry. So my ketchup doesn't get on my burger?"

He laughed, and I tried in vain to convince him that everyone makes a fortress for their ketchup. Apparently I was mistaken.

Allow me to educate you on the beauty and necessity of the border fry. Here is an example:


You'll note that the ketchup is surrounded on three sides by french fries, and on the fourth side by the side of the plate. Such structure reduces the likelihood that rogue ketchup will soil the burger bun. I like my ketchup like I like my men: well contained.

I invite you to experiment with the border fry. Embrace the border fry. Accept the border fry. And eat the border fries last...they're the best part!

Pet Peeve Monday

Blue ink.

But I turned out ok. Right?

Suspicion: I think I might've been an odd child.

Evidence: Here I am, age 7, in my favorite Yuletide "happy place":

That's right. Each year, I would set up camp...behind the tree. I'd read books. Curled up behind the tree, awash in the soft glow of the lights, I'd read.

On second thought, maybe I was just trying to hide from my hair.