Not Cinderella

I'm a shoe girl.

I.
LOVE.
Shoes.

I know, I know!  It's cliche.  But, hey!  I'm a redhead whose favorite color is red, and while I don't mind a margarita or glass of wine, I'm definitely a whiskey girl.  I'm used to being a cliche.

My shoe closet pretty much holds the spectrum of colors and patterns: glittery ruby slippers, blue suede wedges, black patent leather stilettos...heck!  I even have a pair of pumps that have The Avengers all over them.

And they glow under a black light!

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that a certain pair of glass slippers crosses my mind on a fairly regular basis.  Glass.  Slippers.  (Or possibly fur slippers, if you're sticking with the original telling.  There's some controversy over the translation.)  There's no doubt in my mind that if I had a pair of those suckers they would be in my regular rotation.  Because functional glass slippers?  Yes, please!

But even with my slight shoe obsession (fetish?  No...okay, yes) it hit me the other day that I am not Cinderella.

Now, before I get to the moment in which I had this epiphany, I feel the need to say something:  I don't hate Cinderella.  I don't dislike Cinderella.  I don't have anything against Cinderella.

I LOVE CINDERELLA!

In some ways Cinderella is a perfect symbol of fairy tale princesses.  I would love her for that alone, but there's more.  Whether we're talking the Disney version or the Perrault (and then Grimm) version, or even the Egyptian story of Rhodopis, I am a fan.  She has incredible grace under pressure, is an example of perseverance and kindness in the face of hardship and hatred, and it's great that those traits are rewarded at the end of the story.  I think, "Go back!  Go back!  There's blood on the trail!" is an awesome - if Grimm -  refrain, and "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is equally wonderful.

And don't even get me started on statements like this:

Who says these ideas are mutually exclusive?  Why can't I love fairy tales and dreaming and whimsy and still be a strong, successful woman?  I will make it rain shards of glass while wearing glass slippers.  I will chase my dreams in my cutest pair of shoes.  When I have kids they will be taught to dance and dream and demolish that glass ceiling.  You do not have to sacrifice one at the expense of the other.

Honestly.





Anyway, all that to say: I love Cinderella.

But I am not Cinderella.

Some of you may know that I've been doing the online dating thing for a bit.  While it's cool to meet new people and I always enjoy getting dressed up, I'm not stoked on it.  The guys are nice enough (barring, of course, those who think it's alright to ask for naked pictures right off the bat), but I find I'm in a strange mindset about relationships right now.  I don't want anything serious - but I'm open to that if it happens - and I definitely am not looking for a one night thing.  So something casual and with no pressure, but with the option to explore more if there's a connection.  And no hookups.

See?  It's not fair.  It's kind of setting the poor guys up for failure.

A couple days ago I got a perfectly nice message from a perfectly nice guy who was wishing me a good day at work.  I suddenly felt very clearly and heavily in my heart that while he may be Prince Charming I am certainly not Cinderella.  I looked at my phone and sighed, "I'm not The One, guy," before I typed a short and cheerful response thanking him for the kind thoughts.

Cinderella is delicate and strong, persevering and gentle.  She is faith in good things and working solidly and steadily at the task that has been set before her, all while never giving up on the dream of something better.

I am a temper that is contained 96% of the time and fierce the other 4.
I am constant vigilance against the threat of bedbugs.
I am a laugh that is just a touch too loud.
I am bottles of kombucha abandoned with 1/4 of the drink left.
I am Christmas music year round.
I am lying on the floor when writing feels too hard.
I am SO EXCITED to go to Disneyland.  Always.
I am quiet moments at my grandma's grave, telling her about everything going on in my life, and listening for the little bell of her answer.
I am always going to laugh at a fart joke...and most raunchy humor.
I am a dirty mind (*ahem* sexy imagination) that hangs out behind an innocent face.
I am incensed when anyone implies - or states - that I need to dress in a more modest/conservative/ladylike/whatever way.  Incensed.
I am not quite afraid of the dark, but I sleep much better with just a little light in the room.
I am conversations with random strangers about what on earth it means that they dreamt about that weird thing.  And also they swear they saw their grandfather after he passed away.

I am not Cinderella.

And so when well-meaning people tell me to have faith, that my perfect Prince Charming, with his pristine background and white steed, will come soon, well...I cringe.  Because I don't have time for you, Prince Charming - for you or your perfect posture and bizarre insistence that you will marry a woman you danced one silent dance with.

No.  For as much as I love fairy tales, and believe in fairies (well, faeries), I'm not looking for a fairy tale romance.  I need someone who will suit up and show up.  Someone who will don his armor and step into the gladiator ring to fight alongside me.  Someone who will push me to try new things and who doesn't care that "delicate" is a word that has never been used to describe me.  Someone who will embrace and explore life with me, who will hold my hand when it's scary or hard, or simply just because.

Frank and Sadie from Beyond Belief (Thrilling Adventure Hour)...Relationship goals.

So, until I find him - until we find each other - I'll just keep putting one well-shod foot in front of the other.  And to all you Princes Charming or Fairy Godmothers, I will never turn down the gift of a great pair of shoes.

Never.





Any pictures that are not mine were found on Pinterest, and as such photo credit is not given.

Introducing...

Mortimer Mouse!!

Now mice are nervous creatures as a rule, but Mortimer - poor Mortimer! - he made the rest seem relaxed.

The latest love of my life, this little guy is completely occupying my mind.  I'm working on meeting his friend, Miss Suzie Sparrow, but she seems to be a little less anxious to be known.  They have, however, already completed a fun little adventure - which may find its way to the blog at some point.

I just love this little guy :)

A Teller of Tales

In a world without morals I would be a con artist.  I have come to this realization slowly - over a few months, really - and have very mixed feelings about it.  (Probably because I do live in a world with morals.)  It's so intriguing to me, and yet so very, inherently wrong.  I take some comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn't con people out of necessity, or addiction (as there are people addicted to the con out there).  It wouldn't be because of the rush I would get from selling the con.  It would be for the simple joy of telling the story.  It's an intense story, when you think about it, and demands plenty of detail and attention, yet for obvious reasons must be simple and vague.  Yes, the life of the con has always fascinated me.  Maybe that's why I love storytelling.

I took a storytelling class in college.  It was the easiest class I had, although my professor told me straight up that I was the best storyteller in his class - the storyteller with the most promise, the most knowledge of fairy tales - and because of this he would grade me on an entirely different scale than the rest of the class.  I gave a non-committal sort of nod, tried to wipe the confused, yet frustrated expression off my face, and found my revenge in doing spirited impressions of him for my classmates.  (Well, that and acting out the piano-playing scene from Big in the middle of class.  I was horrible, really.)  Two of  my roommates were also in the storytelling class that quarter, although they had the other section, and while they weren't too stoked on the assignments I was.  The textbook we had on using stories in the classroom and using tales as tools was strangely interesting to me.  And although I had little respect for the teacher - despite the fact that he handed me plenty of compliments with my sub par grading and asked me to tell a tandem story with him (yeah, I know I have some brown on my nose) - I did, and do, have great respect for storytelling. 

When I was telling a story it took my entire focus.  I wasn't up there putting on a show for my classmates.  I wasn't wearing a costume, although I did put a lot of thought into how my outfit might best portray some small aspect of my story.  It wasn't a game, although it was very fun.  I had rediscovered a story (one about the "hedgehurst" and another about Brer Rabbit) and needed to handle it in the best way possible so it might reach each listener and hit her in the same place it had hit me: my soul. 

Stories are interesting things.  They are like wild animals that are tamed but never broken.  There's danger in telling stories.  We've all learned that lesson, whether we witnessed, felt, or caused the hurt stories about other people can inflict.  When I approach a new story, whether it is a retelling or an original, it is with a cautious sort of delicacy: How will this story react when I take it in my hands?  When I mold it?  When I retell it?  Many stories demand a certain tenderness throughout.  One rough press and the entire piece crumbles.  Some require tight pressure and a heavy hand when it comes to molding.  Without restraint the story can become too formless or unmanageable, or both.  And once a story has become molded into the correct form it needs to be harnessed.  A runaway story can become a wildfire where it should be a simply a candle. 

I lose myself in stories all the time.  My cousin (in her life of a dreamer blog - go look at it) wrote about how she is constantly creating stories.  Every moment in her life, every passerby becomes caught up in the whirlwind of creation.  I loved this post especially because I do the same thing.  I lose myself in a moment.  It must be disconcerting for the people around me: I am sitting with a child, trying to help him build with blocks, when a character forces herself into my head.  She tries to show me part of her history, whether it is based on my work or totally random, and I am off, following her into Fairyland.  When I come back to the real world, usually only a second or two later, I am struck by an uncomfortable vibe I get from the kid's parent.  I was there in body but absolutely not in spirit.  The body was an animated but empty shell for that second, holding a block suspended for a child to reach and then with a sharp intake of breath and quick blink of the eyes was suddenly refilled.  I have been in the middle of saying something to a friend and will trail off because I am shooting off toward the stars, wondering how the world looks different when seen from above.  A soft, "Steph?" or redirection to the conversation usually brings me right back to Earth and with a shake of the head I get back into it. 

I come by my storytelling honestly.  (At least, I assume it's honest since it so obviously runs in the family.)  And like my cousin I so strongly dream of being a published author.  And while I was definitely inspired in this post by her blog, it also came from my readings on fairy tales and their tellers that I have recently jumped into (well, that and a couple of books about art fraud).  Fairy tales absolutely have their place in my life, and that's where my interest is right now.  So don't be too surprised if I write more about them in the near future.  After all, it's better fairy tales than cons, right?

Night-time Ramblings

It's a strange thing, waking in the middle of the night.

It's been happening a lot to me lately.  First I become aware of the fact that I should be sleeping.  There's a little bitterness to this thought, but in the next instant I become aware of the fact that I am still horizontal and am really quite cozy in my bed.  After that I hear the cars on the freeway, and I wonder where all those people are going: are the running away? running home? heading off on adventure?  Are they happy, or sad, or indifferent?  I hear the trucks downshifting on the freeway and smile as I sink further into my pillow, because while the sound inspires wanderlust it somehow also inspires comfort. 

Then the first minute or so of being awake has passed and I open my eyes.  The darkness is there, pressing down on me, but not in an uncomfortable way.  No, the darkness is a friend at this point, a warm blanket that wraps me in a strange fairyland: an alternate universe.  The thoughts are murky and surreal - thoughts I would never have during the reality of day.  But here in this place they are free to roam and wander and they very often do.  There's no self-judgement in this place - no pulling in on the reins of imagination, no worrying that other people might not understand the flights of fancy I take; that they may not be "normal."

Some time later - whether it be seconds or minutes I really don't know - I begin to notice the glow of light coming from my bedside table.  My clock.  I know the instant I see the time my friend the darkness will turn on me, but curiosity forces me to turn and look.  In that moment the darkness becomes an enemy - who knows what fairies lurk in that land?  Because anyone who has read just one fairytale knows that for every friendly sprite there is a dark fairy, bitter and out for some sort of revenge.  One legend says that when the Great Battle happened in Heaven the fairies chose to wait it out and avoid taking sides until there was a clear winner.  For this they could not remain in Heaven.  Because they had not actively participated in the battle, however, God showed compassion and threw them not into Hell but onto Earth, where they are sentenced to live until He comes again.  Some of the fairies, says the legend, have found joy on Earth: others have not.  This comfortable fairyland of darkness, the land that just moments before had encouraged whimsy, has suddenly become slightly forbidding.  I pull the covers more tightly around me and turn away from the clock. 

I catch sight of the moon and somehow - for better or for worse - reason kicks in.  I am simply Stephanie, in my room, at 1:00 or 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning.  There is no fairyland.  There is no whimsy.  There are only a few more hours to sleep, and my eyelids drift closed as I say a quick prayer of thanks that I still have those hours of sleep. 

When I wake in the morning I greet the day (whether cheerfully or resentfully) and try to remember the thoughts I had in the night.  They're murky - as if I am looking at them through water, or maybe even remembering something from a storybook and not a clear thought I had thought - and I begin to question if I ever built them.  I can remember the time on the clock.  I can remember the position of the moon when I looked at it for comfort.  But the whimsy that was spun, the enchantments that were built, are gone. 

I shake my head as I get up for the day.  Maybe they'll come back to me later.

Glass-Blown Fairytales

While in Nashville visiting Amanda and Elijah and their twin daughters Aida and Sophie, Manda, the girls and I met our Granddaddy at Cheekwood (the botanic gardens of Nashville) and saw the amazing glass art of Chihuly.

Now let me be honest here: I was much more excited at the prospect of being with Amanda and her daughters for the day than looking at plants and glass. Don't get me wrong - I expected the exhibit to be interesting and cool, but I wasn't planning on falling in love.

I was suitably impressed when we arrived at Cheekwood and the girls cried, "We are at Cheekwood!  We are at Cheekwood!"  My nieces are so clever to be able to recognize the road leading to Cheekwood.  Manda pointed out the first Chihuly display as we drove into the parking lot.  "It's macaroni and cheese!" Sophie yelled from the backseat.  She had a point: it looked like an enormous pile of mac and cheese - giant yellow, orange, and white tubes twisted and intertwined, climbing higher and higher. 

Sophie has a point, doesn't she?  

When we walked up to the "macaroni and cheese" and I stood there in awe.  The sculpture was humming - apparently they light up at night, so this was an electric display - and I imagined it was singing itself a little song of contentment.  I hurried to keep up with Amanda, Sophie, Aida, and Granddaddy and we wandered across a dewy lawn to a pond full of glass "Walla Wallas." 

The Walla Wallas in the pond.

I expected them to float into the air at any given moment.  Or maybe if I looked away, but turned back quickly enough I could catch them flying around.  I tried, slyly.  It didn't work. 

My main moment of amazement, however, was on the other side of the pond.  It was a piece called Sunset Boat and this is where I fell in love.  Red, yellow, orange and white glass filled a boat to the point of overflowing.  Points shot out while spirals slithered within the boat.  Globes rested quietly in the middle of chaos and I swear I saw a fairy dancing on the water.  I was smitten.  Even after walking away and looking at other pieces I saw the Sunset Boat in my mind.  I had to go back and look at it.  I felt the subtle sting of tears as I borrowed Amanda's camera and took a few pictures.  I needed, somehow, to keep this boat with me. 

I was in love.

Sunset Boat

Eventually, however, we needed to move on.  (I mean, really, we had two 3-year-olds with us...They needed to keep moving.)  In the house at Cheekwood were some more glass displays: chandeliers. 

I was struck still again by a huge white, champagne, and gold chandelier that immediately brought to mind Christmas.  Glass ribbons and spirals hung midair and I could almost hear sleigh-bells ringing (despite the warmth and bright sunshine outside).  Chihuly's blend of elegance and whimsy was magical.  I was transported to a different time and place.  I'm sure it was only the presence of Amanda, the girls, and Granddaddy that kept me from completely losing myself and becoming "that weird girl" that stood at each display much longer than was necessary. 

A close-up of the "Christmas" chandelier

The stairwell with the "Christmas" chandelier

Another chandelier.  Amanda loved this one.

I know fairytales aren't real...But as I have mentioned before I am inclined to want to believe in them.  And at the Chihuly exhibit at Cheekwood I found something that allowed me to do so: Glass-blown fairytales. 

All of the pictures are from newspaper articles or other blogs.  The use of cameras was prohibited inside the house at Cheekwood and I don't actually have a camera.  So special thanks to those people from whose blogs I snagged the pictures. 

Genesis 1:14-19

Just A Good Fall Day...

Everyday I discover new things. I am constantly coming to realizations about everything - random little things, myself, life. One such realization I have come to is this: some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times.

I am blessed. I was able to escape the real world and head toward the South. I've been staying with my sister and her family in Tennessee for the past few days. We haven't been doing much; my three-year-old nieces' schedule pretty much rules when we can head out. Plus the weather has been stifling hot and humid.

Until today, that is.

Today we opened the door to go to church and were met by a cool breeze rather than the heavy heat we had closed the windows to yesterday. All three grown-ups exclaimed over the coolness, trying to convince the three-year-olds that Fall had come and they didn't need their white, Summertime church shoes. (It didn't work.)

The air was even cooler when we climbed out of the car after the 30 minute drive to church. "Wow!" My sister, Amanda, said. "What a good Fall day!"

"No, it is not," came the response from a three-year-old still upset over her shoes.

Amanda and I looked at each other with wry smiles. I had to agree with my sister: it was a great Fall day.

In church I was reunited with friends and family whom I have not seen in around four years. Four...Far too long. It was a beautiful and happy church service, and I was thrilled to be surrounded by family.

After church was family dinner at my grandparents house. Some things never do change. Again I was surrounded by love and family and yummy food. Oh, and don't forget the football on TV. The game was on the radio during the drive back home (much to the dismay of the three-year-olds in the back seat..."I don't want to yissen to fyootbaw. I want myusic, Mommy.") and on TV again as soon as we walked in the door.

And an after-church nap...A-MAZ-ING.

Of course, what is a house with two three-year-olds without a few meltdowns? During one such meltdown we decided to leave the house and go to an open field and "fly Daddy's plane." See, Elijah (my brother-in-law) makes little wooden gliders and likes to fly them from time to time. "Usually we are here until he loses the plane," Amanda said. "But he likes to make them so it's not really sad when they're gone."

The wind kicked up on the walk to the field, and the evening grew a little cooler. Amanda and I sat and watched her daughters run after their Daddy and his plane. We chatted a bit, but we spent more time laughing over the girls and the plane. And as one of the girlies ran toward Elijah she yelled, "It is a good Fall day, Daddy. It is a good Fall day!"

Some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times. After spending a day surrounded by people and things I love I have to agree with my niece. It may not have been an extraordinary day, but it was a good Fall day.

Proverbs 15:13a

If At First You Don't Succeed...

I tried...I tried a blog before, and it just didn't work. I took a break and never returned.

Oops.

So now I'm trying again. I'm going to try to visit the blogoshpere weekly (note that I said "try") and give way to my rambling thoughts. Because, well, let's be honest here: I do ramble.

And, really, there are plenty of things to ramble about. There's a lot going on in the world to sound off on. But that's not what I want to chat about. I mean, honestly, do I want to spend my time obsessing about all the wrong that is going on out there? Do I want to write things that make people angry, or bring them down? Hmmm....let me think for a seco-NO!

There is far too much good in the world to focus on the bad. The problem is, we let ourselves get bogged down by the bad (at least I tend to). And, yes, there is something to be said for talking about the bad things. After all, if we never acknowledge them how are we going to stop them? But this blog is not the place for that. So if that is what you were looking for, well, I'm sorry. You will just have to navigate yourself away from here. If you are, on the other hand, looking for a place of exploration and retrospecton, rambling thoughts and daydreams, all mixed together with just a pinch of fairy dust, well then...you are in the right place!

And so I leave you (for now!) with a quote from Shel Silverstein. He has written what I wish to express:

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

Psalm 150