Aren’t We All So Devastated about Florida (and so thankful it wasn’t us?)

A few years ago a church reached out to me to do some comedy which I was totally great with doing. Some clients want straight funny, some funny & generically impactful & yet others want funny, impactful & very personal.  I can do any. I can do all. I am great with whatever. Corporate Event, Fashion Show, Hebrew Temple Fundraiser.  I’m down.  A working speaker serves the interest of the client. Period. We serve at your behest. Colleen keeps my calendar and her 15-point survey uncovers your precise desires. 

So the committee came to another gig I had where I had filled the client’s request of both funny then serious. The church wanted to bless the community with laughter as well as encourage the women in their faith through my story of surviving loss. I thankfully hit the marks and got great feedback on my humor as well as story. (Something which really matters to me) 

After seeing me in action, the requesting committee then sent Colleen an email outlining concerns which stopped me in my tracks when I read. They were concerned about me just being funny. Could you just do comedy? We love your story but can you just be upbeat? Which I had already assured them I could. 

“And we just do not want our women to think that anything like this could happen to them. We just want them to laugh.”

We do not want them to think that this is something that could happen to them? I completely get that they just wanted to laugh. Which again I have zero problem with. I can do just funny. But she would hate women’s ladies night to be ruined by the thought that something tragic could happen to them. 

It is not lost on me that I am a comic by trade who has been through some not so hysterical times. Many comedians honed humor as a defense mechanism against the world’s arrows, be they criticism, poverty, bullying or just Garden-variety pain. I always loved the gift that humor has been in my life: a true pressure valve that released stress and allowed the fresh air that proved vital to my soul’s survival. 

When George Clooney entered the ninth grade he was far from the sexiest man alive. He had a paralyzing Palsey his first semester of high school. In discussing the awkwardness of walking the halls, looking as though he were a stroke victim, he recently told David Letterman on My Next Guest Needs No Introduction that “That’s where the funny comes from.” 

If a kid is quick enough the humor will come at the moment they need it most. 

What also comes at us is life. We will all suffer. If we think that we are immune, we are in grave danger. The fact that life is random should liberate us not terrify us into a sheltered existence. As much as we seek to avoid discomfort, we were made for it. We can adapt to even the most horrible circumstances such as running out of Kuerig Pods and that awesome sugar-free creamer that makes us ecstatically happy. 

Florida has gripped us as a nation. I feel it in my bones. There is a time to laugh and a time to mourn according to Ecclesiastes. The fact is that I think about those children being physically obliterated by a semi-automatic weapon and it makes me sick. This could  be your child’s school. It could be mine.  There actually was a campus lock-down this Fall at Texas Tech when a student gunman killed a police officer and fled. That chilled me. 

We are at a crossroads and have to decide if  we will bury our heads in Pinterest and all the beautiful little projects of our lives or we will confront the very ugly reality of the availability of semi-automatic weapons and fight to change that. It certainly will take so much more than that but when we consider  that our children could be next it is action which has GOT to happen. 

I keep envisioning a hostage situation with an armed perpetrator and authorities saying, “Throw down your weapon. Hand over your gun” This is what needs to happen first. There is so much work to be done with those intent on harming themselves and others but we have got to take that primary step. 

No one is asking for hunting rifles. God have mercy. No police state is going to go door to door collecting weapons. We are simply saying that as parents lets ban assault weapons used in the past mass shootings in our country. It could happen. 


Ribbon Friends; The Ties That Bind 

In many ways she is my opposite. She is effortlessly organized as if a West Point graduate. Organization is something for which I constantly strive but have no natural giftedness in. I have, however, fallen in deep love with my labelmaker. I have to have fun props to fool myself into systemically categorizing belongings. Colleen’s mind map of nourishment storage struck me last week as I opened her pantry which resembles an IKEA Ad far more than a location where a hungry family of four finds food.

  I met this detailophile at the tender age of 11 at Fondren Middle School. I was still in my ahem…euphemism alert…big-boned phase and she was crowned with a curly brunette halo. Both of which calamities one good growth spurt for each of us would rectify. My predominantly Jewish Herod Elementary School Crew held together en masse which meant that most of my closest friends went to Saturday School at Temple. The first time I spent the night and mentioned my church, Colleen was very confused. She assumed that I was Jewish as well. 

Colleen’s Mother, Mary Grace, laughed at her daughter’s assumptions. MG was an endless supply of one-liners which still reverberate 37 years later. When a constable came to The Gibbs’ door looking for her son Jack and later left, MG questioned Jack about what caused the altercation. He explained that a neighbor kid “flipped him off.” M.G. asked, “off your bicycle?” We were actually both looking for a snack in her Mom’s pantry and fell down laughing hysterically. We dropped like two fainting goats. 

Colleen was my person through so many milestones. She watched my very first comedy performance at Camp Tejas in 7th grade and still keeps my speaking calendar to this very day. We tied up our families’ land lines for hours after our first day at rival High Schools. We spent literally all of our Summers between Westbury Baptist Church and Maplewood Pool. She, Cara and Jill (sweetest and smartest among us) skipped school to watch my cheerleader tryouts Junior Year. We all made cheerleader for our Senior Year which was (no exaggeration here) everything. 

She went with my family to visit my two older brothers at Baylor when we were 15 and I was at her house the Christmas Morning to watch Colleen open her Baylor T-Shirt. This was M.G.’s way of giving her Irish Catholic blessing for Colleen to attend the very Baptist university. Colleen did attend Baylor with me and our shenanigans continued. Mainly we schemed about upperclassmen who had our utterly unrequited love. Once in Denny’s after such a conversation, a man leaned over as he was leaving and told us he hoped we wound up down the street from each other in houses with white picket fences. Did I mention that we could be loud in public?  And self-unaware? 

We graduated from college and I continued to Seminary for my Masters of Communication while Colleen landed a job in event planning at Dallas Fanfares. With her attention to detail and people skills, she flourished. I finally began loving school after 16 years and discovered another love: John.  Well, actually re-discovered. Our former Youth Minister at Westbury, Steve Wilson, moved to a job at FBC Tyler. Sparks flew on a youth choir tour in 1985 when Colleen and I were assigned to spend the night at The Lake’s house. (Church families volunteer to house a few kids from the group.) The Lakes had three boys: Jody, Jonah, Kyle and one daughter: Kristie. I began dating the oldest, our age, who turned out years later to be one of John’s best friends. What a tangled web we weave! 

Colleen was not only in our wedding but was the first at my reception to try to inform me that a screen behind my cake had been jostled by a renegade toddler, knocking the first few layers to the ground. Ever the fixer, Colleen tried to make things better before we arrived. When we did get there, she ran up to me with icing-laden hands to break the news. Unable to deliver the sad tale after stammering, she began crying and ran off. To this day, my favorite picture from the night is us cutting the reconfigured confection with icing prominently displayed on the lattice screen behind us.  

You do not always value treasures for their true worth when you are young: one thinks there will always be an unending supply of smart, strong, praying women with which to do life. One assumes Mom and Dad will be ever-present to comfort and encourage you when you hit a speed bump or road block. There will always be more time to finish college, have children, prioritize a spouse, save money, get the kids in church or volunteer. When you are a child Christmas comes every 24 months, when you’re in charge of Christmas it happens every 6.  

As way leads unto way and you live and lose and love and pray you notice the beauty of the tree ribbons others have tied, especially when a heartbreak slows time for you. Those ribbons are markers along the way that reassure you that God loves you and to simply keep walking. They are a life-line pointing forward which is the only real direction one can go with sanity. When we are intentional with those around us who are going through a rough patch, we are ribbon- tiers. 

Colleen spent many, many nights giving me proof that come what may there was always hope.  When we were in Jackson praying for God to spare our Maggie Lee in ICU, Colleen and so many others came to help. When she had to return to her small children, she stayed up praying literally all night long. Texting Bible Verses and prayers. She wanted me to know that I was not alone. 

When my Father died, she tied a ribbon. Her faithful kindness extended to me in physical ways. Our Fathers were both incredibly kind and affable men. I lost mine and then she lost hers. And I tied after she lost MG. I was there with her to remind her that she was not alone. There is just something unforgettable about someone’s silent presence down life’s dark forests that gets imprinted on your memory. 

I attest that although God could in one nanosecond deliver us from all disappointment and struggle that clouds our way He does not. God is not obligated to insulate us from the results of others poor choices made of their free will anymore than he protects other people against ours. But He does provide encouragement: friends are the ribbons tied in the trees reminding us that they cannot remove our great sadness but they can point us toward home. And that in our darkest days means the difference between hope and total despair. Life on Earth is not for the faint of heart. But what I have found is people who show up for me that know I will show up for them. This is only possible by God’s grace and often that ribbon looks a lot like you and me. 

#funny, #God's redemption, High School Seniors, momfails, motherhood, parenting, Parenting boys, parents love, Perseverance, Survival

To Moms of 231-Month Olds

The Holidays are over and so is the temporary reunion with my college freshman. What a joy to have him in the nest, to greet first thing in the morning at noon when he awakens and to see little love notes in the form of Taco Bell wrappers regurgitated from our dogs. I am struck now as I mail off the forgotten items today how similar my 231-month-old is to his former 12-month-old self.

1. First: Food

His palette is ever-changing. Remember how she wolfed down carrots and got an orange nose one day and hated tubers the next?  This scenario repeats itself 18 years later after you spent $200 on food craved a mere semester ago. Cue whispers of overheard cell phone comments like, “Yea, there’s nothing to eat in the house.”  This Summer I’ll just buy $3,000 in Whataburger Cards. Family food selectors are left to read the non-verbal indicators such as rotting bananas and a half-eaten dunkin’ stick left for dead in the pantry. Look sharp because gnawed-on treats in cellophane sleeping bags are the only clue comin’ your way,  Little Debbie.

2. Second: Shared Space

Surprise!!! Your house is no longer your own. I remember wondering how my home became a yard sale of Little Tykes molded plastic gardens and work benches.  Overnight. Now the living room is all “Call of Duty” couch-compounds and ghosts of Mountain Dew benders past. So, besides extra trips to the grocery and that little commitment called your job, you have to keep the house photo-ready so your kid’s Snapchat background doesn’t look like Syria.  Sure, it has been liberating cleaning house in a jog bra and fat pants since August but, trust me, you’ll want to cover  up lest your girthy mid-section headline in her own hellish Snap Chat Story.

3. Bad ideas are still contagious.

Even before little ones verbally communicate, you know that two unsupervised toddlers together spell trouble. Just a few:

“Let’s climb the refrigerator!”

“Let’s play beauty shop with real scissors”

“The fish wanted to live in the potty”

Now that young adults are eh hemm..self-supervising, it goes something like this: (and oh so very much worse)
“I bet you can’t jump that refrigerator”

“I cut hair all the time!”

“This is a crazy You Tube- Goldie’s new bowl”
4. And most of all: They still require prayer

I remember praying constantly for my two. Jack’s delivery was too quick to squeeze the fluid from his lungs so he began life in the NICU. Once home, sister tried to feed him a cookie. Then in a few weeks he was hospitalized for RSV. Those were super fun prayer prompters.

I prayed so earnestly for my children before they were born and certainly after. Even now my favorite time of the day remains the wee hours of the morning when I meditate on God’s Word. I love to just breathe, be and pray-lax in His love.

I pray for his continued work ethic and personal safety. Of course I still pray that he will “Make good decisions!” As I used to yell as he walked down the driveway and took off into his 2002 Ford F-250.

I am incredibly grateful that a college education was important to my parents and that they found a way through hard work and sacrifice to send the three of us away to school. It proved a key season for becoming my grown-up self. What a uniquely precious experience of going away and becoming your own person by making all those decisions- good and bad- yourself.

It was a blast to have Jack home and scream-sing certain original ear worms which John has forbidden. (deleted Zimbabwe praise song, you know who you are.) I even watched my son play video games just to hang out. What a blessed few weeks for him to check in, recalibrate and remember why home is such a safe place to fall. As exciting as the launch is, it certainly is nice when they return home. If only for a visit.


Act Yourself. Millard Fuller Love. 

“It is easier to act yourself into a new way of thinking than to think yourself into a new way of acting” -Millard Fuller

Not only is this sassy little statement pithy…it actually WORKS. This is one of my favorite quotes from one of my faith heroes and recipient of The Presidential Medal of  Freedom: Millard Fuller. He was not only a witness to but change agent for those in abject poverty. 

Fuller was a millionaire lawyer who climbed the pinnacle of business success, then at 29, turned his faith-fueled business acumen into Habitat for Humanity. After building 200,000 homes world-wide, Fuller was heartbreakingly asked to step down from an organization he birthed and served for 46 years until his 70’s. Despite this crushing blow, Millard persevered, championing a new organization: Fuller Center for Housing until his death in 2009. 

Millard Fuller just kept moving forward. After years of sacrifice, service to others and devotion to “The Theology if The Hammer,” he was asked to resign. After giving his life away was told, “We’ll take it from here.” I do not know all the details, only the ones which I have read from his perspective but I do know this: Millard kept moving forward in faith when heartbroken. 

My family met Mr. Fuller in 2007 at a marriage conference Florida. John and I proved utter failures at wide-eyed staring each other in the face for ten minutes without laughing. Sorry, people, we are just not that couple. I opened one night’s event with a few minutes of comedy and Mr. Fuller brought the house down with signature Southern story telling style. His obsession to eradicate homelessness, improve the lives of the poor and provide a meaningful vehicle for others to serve provided a new way of thinking for over a million people. 

After his speech, he graciously signed our Building Materials for Life books and said he’d catch up with us in Allendale, the location of his Shreveport Fuller Center for Housing Build that Fall. To my shock, Mr. Fuller invited me to lead the work crew devotional one morning in Allendale. As if I had anything at all to say. He was incredibly sweet and kind. Just as one would imagine a soul intimately acquainted with Jesus might be.

My faith life has been profoundly impacted by the unflappability of Millard Fuller. I am challenged to try and improve the situation of those caught in Pay Day Lending Schemes and even those who just need a simple winter hat at the bus stop. I want to help everyone but know that to go the distance, organizations must take on root causes of systemic poverty and involve people in their own solutions. Fuller required HFH families to go through a rigorous interview process, invest sweat equity in their homes and pay for the homes (without being charged interest.)

Meeting this man briefly and knowing him better through his books informs what it means to me to follow Christ. To care for other people when it seems scary or totally awkward (me at all times.) His example calls me to at least try to partner with those waist-deep overwhelming struggles of life when I would rather just drink my coffee, paint my pictures and eat Beth Watkins Cheese Wafers la-la-la style. 

There is evidence that acting ourselves into motion (caring for others, deciding to be happy, stepping away from the crack-like pull of the cheese wafer) actually is the behavioral tail which wags the dog.

From a February 2017 Huff Post Article: This notion is prevalent among behaviorists and much of the today’s therapeutic community. Indeed, in the treatment of depression and addiction, clients are often urged to to practice “opposite action” – that is to say, to behave in ways that run counter to what they “feel like” or to what their present state or mood urges them to do or not do.* Full Huff Post Article here

Every human who has every walked upon Mother Earth has faced disappointment. Your smiling Rabbi, your spunky cousin, your wise counselor, your perfect room mate. 

-If you feel stuck in jello take a brisk walk around your cubicle and keep the co-workers guessing. 

-Feeling cynical about religion? Read Jesus’ words (any & all) and serve the first person you see who needs a boost (even if that person is in your family.)

-Feel bitter about how behind you feel compared with others? Go to a cancer center and volunteer or at least do a hard reset on your life. 

Forward, forward, always forward. 


Why is Podnas BBQ Dealing in The Soy Game?

We’re going low-carb for the season. I decided that a Podnas BBQ Podtato was a viable strategy as long as I avoided consuming the actual potato. I figured if I stayed in topping territory i’d golden, Ponyboy.

I ordered my lunch at the drive thru and asked the young man to omit the green onions. I am breathing near people with noses after all.  I put in a solid 10 minutes waiting when the drive-thru window cracked open and the gentleman requested payment. I paid, thanked the chopper and spun off.

Back at work, I unloaded the podtato, opened the styrofoam treasure chest and was instantly confronted by a sickening sight: neon red faux bacon bits intermarried with shreds of cheddar cheese. Throngs of Bacos shamelessly masquerading up in amongst my other honest ingredients. Real beef,  actual cheese and sour cream with “made with milk” warnings for idiots who eat green bananas. 

These little posers at pork fat bring to mind the square of lunch tray lettuce doused in watery ranch dressing.  Once you consumed a single Baco it greedily begged for gastric freedom manifesting in nasty belches. They remain abhorrent. Really, how have bacon-flavored soy bits not experienced an improved incarnation? We drank Tab only until Diet Coke helped us see the light. Sadly, despite  the fantastical progress made in the food industry in the past 40 years, Baco’s remain precisely the same. 

The greater offense than just how nasty those faux bacon bits taste is the fact that a BAR-B-QUE joint tried to get away with sprinkling a meat substitute on my potato like it’s a salad shop in South Beach rather than a Shreveport Bar-B-Que restaurant. I mean, know your audience. 

Sprinkling Bacos on my podtato was like getting a Tiffany’s necklace for Christmas wrapped in a used Merle Haggard CD Case. Which Jack may have done for a girlfriend along the way. Man was it hysterical…to him. Who knew it was the beginning of the end? This lunch was the moral equivalent of smothering a bowl of Blue Bell ice cream with sugar free chocolate sauce. 

So, Podnas- I am imploring you in the name of ethical Podtato production to drop the Bacos. No one is fooled. No one is amused. We are far too busy belching. 






Really? Google Arts and Culture? Really?

What handsome three boys you have.”
Said far too many strangers to my brothers and me when I was a little girl. Which was flattering, especially since I had pierced ears.  In my defense I also had a tragic mushroom-cut and an outgoing nature to boot. I was the loud Richardson boy. 

Eventually my passion for collecting frogs in the Summer was replaced with a collection of tiny metal Lip Smacker tins and tickle deodorant in the iconic domed polka-dot silo of a container.  I did not know who shot  J.R. but I used weekly Dallas T.V. Shows as a tutorial in proper hair feathering. 

The pack of girls with whom I grew up were not super girly either with the exception of Christie the ballerina. The rest of us played with Breyer Horses instead of Barbies. We would literally invent plot lines with toy horses to rival the twists and turns of any General Hospital episode. I took pictures of my horses with my pink Kodak camera and always ran out of flash bulbs before I ran out of film. 

 It was an amazing treat to have my own camera and a painful exercise for my Mother to pay for the off-center, overexposed 3 x 5 inch clustershots. A tiny kiosk to the West of Foodarama Grocery  was the collection point of film and once that film was developed, days later,  a rat hole to toss hard-earned money down into. Unfortunately there was no prior knowledge that your photograph would be crap. 

2018? Well, that’s a different story. With my endless storage of photographs which I see instantly and do not have to pay for, I may over-document a tiny amount, perhaps. I am most happy behind the lens taking pictures of others. When not taking wide-mouthed selfies.  So when Jack told me about Google’s Arts and Culture App which, among thousands of other useful aspects has the “Is Your Portrait in a Museum?” Activity, I was curious. He said he’d take my picture and instantly see which historical painting subject my face resembled. I was down. 

Jack snapped my face.  Then waited a beat. Then began laughing from his gut’s gut. This app brought me right back to 1978’s King Super Drug in Maplewood Square with my two brothers. The historical figures my face most closely resembled were all DUDES. Every single one. Albeit, handsome men but seriously that brought my room down a notch. 

Sensing my shock, Jack decided to try again. I made a completely different face and to my relief neither George Washington nor George Washington Carver was my match this time but completely different men. 

Hair up? Guys. Hair down? Male. Silly face? Testosterone. Straight face? Mister. I encourage everyone to give it a try. Show me what you find! 








Proof That There is Absolutely Zero Hope for America

I am a naturally positive person. I look for the best in people and affirm the good I discover. I try to cut those around me slack, believing that “there is always one fact more about someone that you do not know” which may explain their behavior.  We all have a tough road to hoe at times. 

I am very, very hard to discourage. While others see the sky falling, I see a horizon which is cloudy with a chance of meatballs. When tragedy strikes, I try to stay focused on The Lord and count my blessings. When Junior was late to a final his Senior Year because he was pulled over by a state trooper and couldn’t find his driver’s license, I rolled with it. I have always clung to the mantra “Things can always be worse.”

However, what I saw tonight challenges all the hope I have EVER held for our country and her people within. I scarcely could believe my eyes. My normal effervescence deflated when I beheld a grocery store produce bin teeming with bananas and a sign above the fruit which read as follows:

“Banana color guid (GUID) 

Worried about when your bananas will be ready to eat? Here’s a little help. 

Ready in 3.5 days- half green half yellow

Ready in a couple of days- more yellow than green

Ready to eat now- yellow with green tips and green necks 
This little display has left me with so very many questions. 

First off: how is the general population in need of a slick ad campaign to avoid eating green bananas?

Secondly, just who is confused by the lowly banana? It is hardly the mood ring of the fruit kingdom one needs an illustrated guide to interpret, she’s pretty straightforward. Now the cantaloupe? Heck’s yea, I’ll take a melon hack all day long, those guys can be tricky. Watermelon: a dice roll every time. But a banana? 

Thirdly, who devised this brilliant display and why do they not have spell check on their computers? Why is the first picture’s ripeness approximated with numeric accuracy when the second is stated in lazy generalities?  A few? Why was the passion for precision so quickly abandoned by, oh, I don’t know, the second example? 

Were the female banana models compensated equally to their male counterparts in this photo shoot? And if not would the males consider making up the difference out of their own pockets? Sadly,  we are only privy to is the masterful end result not the making of.

Lastly, I am dumbfounded by the fact that we in a single generation have become so unfamiliar with fruit that we need a tutorial to prevent such “worry.”

Signs like these make me believe the worst about us as a nation. We used to be smart enough not to eat green bananas. I remember growing up with the benefit of two parents mentoring me in the nuance of such weighty consumption decisions. I know, I was one of the lucky ones.

In summation: God save the Queen if we are this pathetic. And, if anyone in our country has the luxury of banana anxiety amid the current natural and man-made disasters, I am more than half green with envy. Far more than just my tips and stems. And I do not need any silly guid to tell me that.


Cousin Judy

When your Mothers are cheesy twins and you’re a child of the groovy 1970’s just assume that you will be dressed alike. At. All. Times. My Mom, Judy and her twin, Jinny, dressed alike until they graduated from L.S.U. In 1962. So despite my cousin Judy being two years older and a foot taller than me, where there’s a Butterick Pattern, there’s a way. 

Because one set of Judy and Jinny’s was not enough for the world, our Moms kept the fun rolling into the next generation. Having the unique spelling of Jinny in a sea of Jennifer/ Jenny/ Jens lead to a severe case of NFKASF Syndrome (Never Finding Keychains at Six Flags) within me as a child.  Every personalized ordered anything for me would arrive Jimmy Richardson. But now the quirky spelling fits and pencils be damned, I love my name. 

Our childhood Summers included a solid 2-4 week cousinfest; either our visit to Chicago’s Northern Suburb of Skokie or Jinny, Bill and Judy’s visit to Houston. Did I mention my Dad was named Bill?                  I can still taste the melted pimento cheese sandwiches from our day trip to NASA. Even the little plastic top shelf of an Igloo cooler had its thermodynamic limits. This is decades before The Yeti and the lower, iciest region was reserved for cans of Tab and Fresca. 

Cousin Bill had my two older brothers and I had Judy. We watched Grease in the movie theater together and choreographed dance sequences to John Denver that we felt were perfection. Later we sung the complete soundtrack to Best Little Whorehouse in Texas into my hand-held cassette recorder. Because cable t.v.  

When we grew older and less kidnappable, the five of us rode the Skokie Swift to the “L” eventually arriving at Water Tower Place and Marshall Fields; all while speaking Spanish. We were just so clever loudly rolling our R’s and discussing what Madre had sent us to purchase en la ciudad as if we were getting daily necessities from the Mercado. An afternoon Cubs game then a return to the Northern ‘burbs was Summer perfection. 

More than a running buddy Judy would go absolutely anywhere I wanted to go. In 1998 she got tickets to The Oprah Show and when the producers asked if anyone had an impression from the Seinfeld Show for Oprah’s farewell to Seinfeld show, Judy raised my hand. Frozen in the moment she said, “Do The Elaine Dance!” So 6 months pregnant with Baby Jack, I let it rip. Judy went out with me for the micro audition, refused to do the dance with me then cheered me on for my 9 seconds of Oprah fame. 

 From Judy I learned from the art of kindness and support. I have often said that she is hands-down the nicest one in our family. When I dressed up like a maintenance man and surprised her on her birthday a few years ago, she kindly redirected me when I approached her acting psycho. Many times I have seen her preciousness but never in cognito like that. 

She was my Maid of Honor in 1994 and proudly I will be her Matron of Honor this July when she gets married to Jesse, her person. I am thrilled beyond measure that God has blessed Mi Primita with the love of a lifetime. No one deserves a life of love more than my Juju. 


Squirrel Massage, Car Pets and Korean War Veterans: Studies in Misunderstanding

The first time I came to Shreveport rather than through Shreveport, I exited I-20 onto 49 and saw a sign which read

“Korean War Veteran Memorial” 

 This perplexed me because I truly had no idea that Shreveport had so many patriotic Korean Americans who had fought for our country during war time. 

We moved here and to my surprise I found that there was hardly a Korean population at all. I continued to pass that green sign and one day the veil was lifted:  this is a memorial to those who served in the Korean War rather than a memorial to Korean Americans who served in the military. What escaped me at first blush eventually came to light. 

I would blame my slothful cognition on a childhood with too many diving board accidents. But as any comic with nuanced material (not that I claim such) will attest, some people just don’t get it. Some immediately see where things are headed and because of familiarity with a topic or merely a predictive wit, they are the first to bust out laughing. Yet, there are others who take a while for things to sink in. We can all be mentally shrouded, just about different things. 

For children just learning to read, signs can be just as vexing. My friend Stacy used to think that a store’s sign advertising “Carpets” sold animals specifically for motor vehicles. Imagine her disappointment when her parents took her shopping for new living room shag. 

Misunderstanding impacts our relationships as well. Texting: the short, less personal  cousin to actual conversation has forever changed human communication. Ideas once requiring physical presence to be conveyed, ideas such as BRB and TBT  can now be sent via text message ASAP. Misunderstanding is now easier than ever thanks to these message-sending hand sandwiches. 

Case in point; I was conveying vital spiritual encouragement to a friend. It was in video form and involved squirrel massage. Literally this fully relaxed squirrel on its back was getting what appeared to be a professional massage. You could see the relaxation overtake this little bugger when the massage therapist dig into his face, moving cheeks in circular motion. My favorite part was the end when both of the squirrels forepaws were clenched around forefingers and the masseuse let them go to snap out of it just like on a human being. 

An hour later, I thought of my friend and since it was Tuesday,  I wondered if she was going to watch NBC’s hit television series, This is Us. Even though she had not replied to my amazing video, I faux-pasedly  (fo-passedly) double texted with the message:

“This is us tonight?”

A while later, I glanced at my phone and was horrified. It looked as though I was  suggesting massaging her face that evening.  

I IMMEDIATELY clarified;

I was asking about The SHOW This is Us THE SHOW. Are you watching it tonight? Nothing related to squirrel massage. I promise! 

Luckily she understood but that moment reminded me of the truth that we see things  not as they are but rather as we are.  My Father always reminded me that if people perceived that you offended them then it doesn’t matter if you did anything worthy of their offense. They were still offended. As an classic study in the ENFJ personality type, he sought consensus, had incredible people skills and worked passionately to avoid and correct misunderstanding. 

May the beautifully rare virtue of humility season our conversation with others and ourselves as we move in this time and space today. And if you see a veteran of any nationality from any conflict, be sure to memorialize them. 






I Am No Stranger to Yoga. I Have Worn The Pants for Decades

My husband and son have a term for when I trip and topple down a hiking path / stair (singular. Yes, I know) or random blade of grass. It is moniker I received while hiking  at the farm and I tripped: Blueberry. As in “Mom! You totally looked like a blueberry rolling down that hill.”

Blueberry also serves aptly as a verb: “Remember that time you blueberried at Science Fair and almost landed on me?” Apparently despite not wearing a large blue sweatshirt I still managed to resemble a bouncing blueberry as I toppled down the woody decline. I trip so frequently that I now tuck and roll reflexively.

I could blame my tripping on enthusiastic perambulation or lack of self-awareness and surroundings, but truly it has to do more with balance. My balance is woefully poor. So to improve my flexibility, strengthen my core and blueberry less often I began practicing yoga.

I’m no stranger to yoga, I have believed in the pants for decades. I quickly came to adore this form of exercise and here’s why:

1) Darkness: There are no Broadway floodlights here to intimidate. You cannot even really see yourself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Especially if you commandeer the coveted back row. The group privacy encourages one to attempt an extremely awkward pose without fear.

2) Lack of competition: Because it is “my practice” comparison has no place. I cannot stick my hoof behind my head and that’s just fine. Beginners are welcomed and not expected to have a flawless “table,” “plank,” “downward dog”, or “resting gator.” Hey, it’s Shreveport, LA, we’re gonna make it our own.

3) Moderation is encouraged: I have waited my whole life to hear the words, “If it hurts, stop.” What? The last time I listened to my body it whispered “do the whip” in The Starbuck’s line. In this relaxing, restorative environment there was no way to overdo. Yoga, you had me at “if it hurts, stop.”

It is so great to stretch, people. My right clavicle is not throbbing and I trip less taking the dogs out in the morning. It’s nice to no longer be met with the “she put Jim Beam in her Cheerios again” look from the neighbors. It just IS. More stretching, less blueberrying. 

Even if I am routinely singled-out for pose enhancement (read: your left hand makes an L when you stick both hands out) it just doesn’t matter. I am tickling 50 and have earned the right to take up mat space, try something new and get incrementally better at not falling down hills.