Don't Blame the Fluffy Dresses

Seven years ago, I got my principles hurt by a preschool Halloween party. This was my first preschool Halloween party, mind you, and my oldest daughter and I were gonna do this right. I carefully, diplomatically, expertly convinced her to go for something more unique than a princess dress. 

                                       

A little red electrical tape on her raincoat, some smudges to show she'd come straight from a rescue. I wanna squish those smudgy cheeks!

Then every other girl in the class showed up in the exact same princess costume. Yes, you heard me right. Not only were they all princesses, they were all wearing the EXACT same costume and by the end of the day, my little firefighter had tear streaks through her ash smudges. How dare the world crush her individuality? Look at her! She was adorable, and those darn fluffy dresses ruined everything. 

I went home and waxed poetic in protest. 

The original version of my poem let me vent my feelings about a world that tries to fit everyone into the same mold. But I didn't have it quite right. First of all, I've learned to let my kids pick their own costumes. If she wants to be a fluffy princess, for heaven's sake, let her be a fluffy princess. I was no better than the society I was ranting about, trying to convince her to be something she wasn't excited to be. I really needed to get off of Fluffy Dress's back. There's nothing wrong with a good, sparkly tiara, either, if that's your thing. 

So I rewrote the poem. 

But later I realized there was another reason my story wasn't quite right. I was only focused on the injustices against girls. It took several years, two sons, and a growing disgust with the portrayal of men as idiotic mess-makers in paper towel commercials, for me to realize that I didn't want my story to be about girl power. I don't like girl power. I like "You Power". Who cares if you are a boy or a girl. You have power. 

I feel uncomfortable when my sons are taught that girls are better, just like I feel uncomfortable when my daughters are taught that boys are better.

Point is, my boys feel pressure to become a certain type of person, too. They need a story about being an individual just as badly as my daughters.

So I rewrote the poem again and tucked it in to sleep for many more moons while I focused on other things. 

A while ago, I was asked to speak at an event for 8-11 year old girls. I was supposed to teach them, inspire them, entertain them! Oh crap, right? I remembered my poem, dusty and lonely in a forgotten file. I pulled it out, whipped up some pictures to display while I read it, and hoped that it wouldn't be a big fat fail. What if they don't laugh at the funny parts? What if they don't like my pictures? What if my fly's undone? 

Nearly one hundred girls came through my station in small groups, and I read them my story. Part of my target audience in a giant focus group--writer's dream come true! 

I watched their faces when they caught the message, and I caught the message, too. 

                                                        

More than forty illustrations later, the result is, I hope, a story that is the summation of what I want for my kids. A message I'm trying to send them without their Boring Adult Advice radar going off.  Also, I want them to laugh at my dragons. And color them, actually. It's a coloring book, guys!

This is one of my favorite illustrations because it came straight from the moment that started the whole thing, and because this girl is putting out her own fire, not waiting to be rescued. 

Here's a sneak peak at the cover and story. 

Coming soon! Really soon! 

Kingly College Knight Classes

 and the 

Dainty Damsel University of Distress

A Royal Mess

The Kingdom of Locks is a fairy tale place, 

But the King and the Queen are ashamed. The disgrace!

No damsels in danger, no knights on white steeds.

Fear not! This Queen knows just what her kingdom needs.

A college for knights, a school for princesses!

Bright shining armor and huge, fluffy dresses!

It will be perfect, like love at first sight,

Except that her sons are refusing to fight.

They won't slay the dragons, they won't go to class.

Now girls are protesting their slippers of glass.

If you think you know how all fairy tales end,

I hope that this tale will surprise you, my friend.

P.S. "Color this book!" the front cover declares.

Don't be afraid, for the reader who dares

To color this novel will find they're elated

To own a fine book that they've co-illustrated. 

Coming soon: my release date, and my website with coloring pages, quizzes, and contests!  

Everyone's a Critic

The other day I vehemently slammed a book shut. Josh sighed. "Here we go. You know, I thought I was marrying a nurse."

He has a way of making me laugh before I leap onto a soap box. I reminded him that he didn't like hearing my hospital stories either. Blood and guts or character and plot, dude. 

In this case, it was both. I had a good old rant about how much I hate it when the main character is a villain. I like my heroes good, fighting for something right. Not imagining ways they could kill people for looking at them wrong. I also have a problem when the purpose of every male in the story is to ogle the females, and the purpose of the females is to wear gorgeous dresses and be catty to other females. Thus the indignant slamming of the book. I had the urge to tell the whole world or at least my friends on Goodreads and Facebook to never touch this foul book.

But I just told Josh instead. Lucky him.

I picked up the next book in my library stack, a hilarious satire about 1900s London. 

The Entomological Tales of Augustus T. Percival:
PETRONELLA SAVES NEARLY EVERYONE
by Dene Low, cover illustrated by Jen Corace. 

Don't tell anyone, but I read aloud in a British accent and then it was even funnier. Think of the movie The Importance of Being Earnest with Colin Firth. Same kind of vaguely historical, mostly hysterical feel. It was, like the cover quote,"frothy". It didn't have the most gripping or high-stakes plot line, and most of the characters were totally, but kind of wonderfully, ridiculous. I liked it enough to rate it on Goodreads, which I don't do very often. I wanted to let the author know I appreciated a good laugh. Then I made the mistake of reading one of the reviews. The reviewer didn't get that it was a satire, hated the book and found it offensive. It turned into a bit of a drama in the comments, actually, which made me very sad. And made me think.

I'm very relieved that I vented my feelings about the first book to Josh and not in a more public place. I have no business reviewing a book in a genre I despise or don't get. For example, I don't read dirty romance novels. (Crotch novels, to quote my uncle). Any review I wrote would be bad. I don't read military fiction or zombie apocalypse or vampire or horror because it scares the crap out of me. Any review I wrote would be bad. And unfair. 

If you hate a book, maybe you shouldn't bother finishing it in the first place. Would you finish a bowl of tapioca if it's your food arch nemesis? (Which rhymes with emesis, which means puke. Nurse humor. You're welcome, Josh.)

Here's the point. Critics: Someone spent hours, days, months, years, blood, sweat, tears and brainwaves creating a story. You don't have to like it. You are welcome to give it a low rating if you think the story deserves it, but remember--that story you're trashing was written by a real person. 

Do you really have to hate out loud?

Keeping Your Waiting Place Bright

If you need a quick dose of profound inspiration, try a picture book. After spending many a night of the last decade in a rocking chair with a small person and a picture book, the children's genre has been resurrected as my favorite. These books influenced me in the influential years. But as someone who is trying to be an adult, with some of life's difficulties to make me think more deeply, I've realized there is great wisdom to be found on an illustrated page.

It's been helpful this summer, when I've been stuck in the Waiting Place. It's a place Dr. Seuss described in Oh, the Places You'll Go!

Dr. Seuss stories almost always tackle some larger social issue. I was surprised to find a book of his political cartoons at the library one day. I had no idea he was an outspoken voice in WWII, trying to urge Americans to take the threat seriously. But...the Waiting Place. 

It's different than a Lurch or a Slump. 

You'll come down from the Lurch

with an unpleasant bump.

And the chances are, then,

that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,

you're not in for much fun.

Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.

I'll admit there has been a bit of Lurching and Slumping this summer, but nothing that a few good hours to myself, or with friends couldn't fix. 

No, this has been the summer of  

The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a Yes or No

And that is me. I'm waiting for someone to have faith in my story. 

Compared to others, my Waiting Place isn't so bad.

People in my life are Waiting to have cancer or not.

They're Waiting for a forest fire to burn their house or not. 

Outside the sky is dark and smoky, the sun a heart-squeezing red that makes me want to pack the car. Waiting for a disaster or not. 

In my inbox is the lack of an email saying we've found Time Walker's home. Waiting for a career or not. 

NO!

That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape 

all that waiting and staying.

You'll find the bright places

Where Boom Bands are playing. 

And that's the secret, right there. I still have to wait, but why not wait in a bright place with Boom Bands, instead of a dark place with doubts? Dark places grow mold and fungus and doubt and fear. And that's gross. So instead I'll write blog posts about poop. I know...but it's a different kind of gross, right? 

I had another profound picture book moment reading Harold and the Purple Crayon to Weezie. If you haven't read it, well then, gasp. You should. Harold, with his purple crayon, can create whatever he has the imagination to think of. But he has a hard time getting where he needs and wants to be most. I feel you Harold. I really do. No matter how many windows you draw, you just can't find your window, and your home. 

In the car, the kids and I have been listening to Half Magic, by Edward Eager, a great book from the 50s. 

Something one of the characters said grabbed me by the collar and jerked me right out of a dark, doubting place. "She knew she would win in the end, because she'd wished it that way. But what was she to do in the beginning and middle?"

She figured it out though, and so am I. 

Here's wishing you Boom Bands and brightness in your Waiting Places, and, like Harold, if you can't find home, draw your window around the moon.

......................

I've been posting daily #timetraveltips on Instagram and Facebook. I learn something new everyday, and if you'd like to join me by liking, following and sharing, it would make my Waiting Place even brighter. 

Because poop.

Sometimes, you're standing at a softball game, holding a McDonald's bag full of poop.

Because your husband is out of town, and for some insane reason, softball games for eight-year-olds last two and a half hours.

Because you're holding the baby who is the only one brave enough to cry about how boring the game is. Strike-one-two-three, ball-one-two-three-four, out-walk-walk-walk-out-walk-out, repeat. Make it stop!

Because another parent just asked you if that was your kid squatting in the grass out yonder toward right field.

Because it's potty-training time and you asked him not to poop in his pants, so he didn't.

Because it was already a rough enough day to get dinner from McDonalds, which a friend pointed out is already poop in a bag. But the bag and an empty french fry container do come in handy when you have to scoop your kid's poop. And it couldn't just be a little poop...must have been the McDonalds.



Because just then, your husband drives up, back from a week-long work trip. "Hi! You guys went to McDonald's, huh?"

Harrison Ford Knows Me

Back in time, I was a waitress at a Mexican restaurant on main street. I had just graduated from high school and needed those tips to buy all my ridiculously priced text books when I started college. One slow afternoon, my friend, the hostess, seated three old guys, the only customers for hours. I brought out menus, hoping they weren't cheapskates.

"Welcome to Hernan..." My voice dribbled off while my eyes and brain argued about who I was seeing. He was a little bit shorter than I thought, his stubble white, a few more wrinkles than I expected, but holy crap that's Han Solo! 

He got a resigned look on his face, and sighed patiently while obviously wishing his waitress had been less nerdy. I wonder if he can tell which of his movies people like best by the look on their faces. Round eyes and speechless indicates Star Wars fans. Indiana Jones fans stammer. Action flick fans give him a knowing nod, and maybe a salute, Mr. President. 

While we're paused here, with my mouth hanging open and Mr. Ford preparing for the worst, let's go over the things I would have said, had I been prepared for a conversation with Indiana Jones:

I'd say,"You're not the man I knew ten years ago."
And he'd say, "It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage."

Or maybe, "Indiana Jones. I always knew some day you'd come walking back through my door. I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable. So, what are you doing here in Nepal?"

I could have brought him a sopapilla for dessert and said, "Chilled monkey brains."

Or maybe if he spilled his drink, "I hate the water...and I hate being wet...and I hate you!" He would have laughed and laughed, I'm sure of it.

Before he left I'd switch to Star Wars.

"So. You got your lunch and you're just leaving, then?"
"That's right, yeah," he'd say. "Got some old debts I gotta pay off with this stuff. Even if I didn't, you don't think I'd be fool enough to stick around here, do you? Why don't you come with us? You're pretty good in a fight. We could use you."

I'd wink and say, "You stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking Nerf herder." 
To which he'd reply...say it with me Nerds!..."Who's scruffy-looking?" 

As he headed for the door I'd say, "All right. Well, take care of yourself, Han. I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?"
He'd stop, look back, and say, "Hey, Jess...may the Force be with you." 

And my life would be complete. 

But that's not how it went down. The first thing out of my mouth was, "Hey, I know you."

And Harrison Ford said, "Oh, yeah, I thought I recognized you, too." 






That's what Harrison Ford said. To me. 






I think I laughed, but I can't really remember. The two guys sitting with Mr. Ford watched, amused, while I stood there for a second, forgetting what should happen next. Water! Right. Water.

While they looked at their menus, I sprint-walked into the back and attacked my coworker. "Do you not know who that is? How can you not know who that is?" She kind of shrugged. 

I paced in a few figure eights and my feet may have left the floor a few times. I had a decision to make--the greatest moral dilemma of my short life. Did I rat him out to my boss, who would die of joy to have a celebrity in her cute little main street dive? Or did I let him eat lunch in peace with his two friends who looked kind of familiar and were probably famous, but were not Han Solo so I didn't really care? (Now I'm pretty sure one was the blonde guy from The Fugitive, and the other was quite possibly Billy Bob Thorton. Yup.) So, did I betray Han to the Empire? Turn Indiana over to the Nazis? (The Empire and the Nazis represent the loss of Mr. Ford's peaceful lunch, by the way, not my boss. Just thought I should make that clear.) 

Don't judge me. I decided in my teenage head that if my boss found out I didn't tell her, I might actually get in trouble. Mostly, I knew it would make her happy. "Guess who's in your restaurant," I said. I'm sorry Mr. Ford. Truly I am. 

Out came the Polaroid and the enthusiasm, and poof! went his privacy. 

Really, everyone was pretty cool about it. He posed for the picture, kind of sort of smiled, then ate shredded pork enchiladas with verde sauce, drank two ice teas and left a normal tip. It probably would have been bigger if I'd kept my mouth shut. The whole time I kept thinking, "Oh my gosh, Harrison Ford looks just like Harrison Ford!" 

Apparently movie stars prefer shredded pork.

I tried to be conspiratorially helpful, play the mature semi-adult that I was so he would know that I was really on his side. He's lucky he didn't meet me now. Now that I'm a "real" adult, I have no reason to try to be cool, and I would have pulled a chair right up to the table while I bombarded him with lines and questions, and impersonations, completely humiliating myself and not even caring. So, even though you got a much milder response from Teen Me, really, Mr. Ford, I'm sorry about your lunch in 2001. At least I didn't have Instagram, right? I had to spread the news the old fashioned way, and it gave him time to escape. 

I heard that he came back a few times after I'd moved on to college, and a few years later I heard that the little restaurant moved to a new location when half the block had to be demolished after an accidental explosion. Things change, and some things will only happen once. So, even though I betrayed a childhood hero, I'm grateful for the Polaroid my boss took, and made me walk all the way across town to have enlarged and copied. She hung it up by the front door, right next to the fake palm trees and the Virgin Mary candles. 

Hanging out with Harrison.
(I cropped the picture for privacy purposes, and yes,
I made sure I got to stand right next to Mr. Ford. I don't
care who's restaurant it was, I found him first.)