You've Got...one embarrassing vice

Everyone has vices.  Guilty pleasures, skeletons in the closet-a rose called by any other name...you get the picture. I'm not necessarily talking about the stereotypical vices, i.e. smoking, drinking, excessive food intake or other seductive behaviors that have become so common place in our over-indulged society that they no longer fit the true definition of vice, but rather the definition of social-norms instead. ( The actual definition for Vice, for future reference is exactly this: depraved or degrading behavior; a fault, defect or shortcoming; a bad habit.) 

For some it may be the 47th pair of strappy black sandals hidden behind the frozen peas and the 5 gallon container of chicken stock in the extra freezer in the basement that the dear husband doesn't know about.  For others, it could be something much more provocative- such as the entire collection of WHAM! videos neatly tucked away underneath your side of the bed.  Whatever your vice is, I am here to assure you that it cannot, will not, could not possibly be as embarrassing as mine.

That's a bold statement, you say.  Just to clarify- this is not an invitation for vice trump cards. No catharsis necessary as barter to participate in the reading of my ridiculous-though often highly intellectualized, philosophical-rantings.  If you happen to disagree with the above statement, let us now, as friends, agree to disagree without having to trudge through embarrassing admissions that I really would have rather gone to church in my underwear before choosing to be a listening ear to.  That being said, I am most positive you will agree that this terrible, little vice of mine really should never be exposed for fear of ridicule or bullying and just the sort of thing those paparazzi search to dig up the moment after you've gotten famous.  I'm hoping that by this public display of humility when my time for fame rolls around, they will have nothing on me other than the fact that I keep the water running while I brush my teeth.  ( Oh stop it all of you Green Gestapo, you do it too and you know it.)

Deep breath.  Here it is.  I am, by nature, an anxious person.  I grind my teeth.  I get jaw pain from grinding.  I get migraines from jaw pain.  I get panic attacks from the migraines and so the cycle continues until either I or my husband or the both of us put together are so sick of me that we have to sit on separate couches and sulk.  I cannot eat or sleep or read or even cry.  It is at these dark hours that only three things have the power to bring me up and out into the light.  1.  Praying to God 

2. Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Mint Cookie- (Half-Baked is acceptable under duress of emergency)

3. You've Got Mail

(Insert slowly widening eyes as connections are made. Audible laughter is evident.  Alright, that's enough.  Really.  It's not that funny.)

No, I do not still use the archaic AOL.  I am talking about the grilled-cheesy mid 90's movie starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  I know.  I can't believe it either sometimes.

I am unsure of the hold that YGM has over me, but it is certainly stronger than any caffeine addiction.  Perhaps it's Kathleen Kelly's charming profession as a children's bookstore owner that has me entranced.  Maybe it's the way she always wears flowing skirts and matching sweater-sets.  Oh, and how the store is perpetually decorated with twinkle lights.  And how daisies are her favorite flower because they're the friendliest.  And maybe it's how she always skips when she walks and how she buys one solitary apple at the farmer's market and how she re-reads "Pride and Prejudice" over and over because she likes the word"thither".  And maybe it's because of how she and Joe Fox always bicker in the cutest little cafes over Mochaccinos and Herbal Teas. Oh, and how I want to be just like her.  Maybe that's it.  Embarrassing.

As soon as the opening credits roll I can feel the tension in my jaw melt away right into the couch.  By the "bouquet of sharpened pencils" my headache has slightly subsided.  By the "what is it with men and the Godfather?" line my fists have slowly unclenched.  And most certainly by the "no matter how horrible you are there is no reason for me to talk to you like that" line I have completely lost sight of any and all previous pain and anxiety and have broken into a deep, silly grin.  My husband, after three years of observation, is still amazed at the mighty power a poorly made 90s film has over his wife's emotions but I would venture a guess to say that if ever there came a time in which he were to meet Tom Hanks, I think he might cry in his arms and thank the poor gentleman for having a hand in saving our marriage.

So, there it is for all the world to see.  I am not thoroughly unashamed, yet have a curious sense of pride in my vice confession.  I love "You've Got Mail".   I hope this gives courage to the masses.  I know there's at least one of you watching "Hope Floats" at this very moment, Kleenex in hand, rubbing the scuff marks in between the skips in the DVD.  Take heart, sister- or brother, mind you, we don't discriminate here at kindalikeoprah-you are not alone.  

No Place Like Home

We were successful.  We have each consumed our weight in bbqed pork, washed down with our share of local southern brews- Abita Amber from New Orleans and Yazoo Pale Ale from Nashville were the front runners for Rich-I, however, apparently am a Texan at heart and stuck with the tasty Shiner Bock. I wore the same dress for four days straight without batting an eye and I resigned myself to the fact that "y'all" and "darlin" have slowly crept into my northern vocabulary- and the Beignet's in New Orleans have crept sneakily into my love handles.  I welcomed them.  I tell ya, I would do it again just for some of that powered sugar-fried doughy goodness.  Don't judge.  

Though we stayed and hung out with beautiful people in Nashville-( Thank you Kelsie, Michael and Emmy!) and had a rockin' night on Beale St. in Memphis (a foot note, I will warn you now, NEVER stay at the Fartisan, uh, I mean, Artisan Hotel in Memphis-it smelled like hot dogs and looked like someone had just previously bathed their dog in the sink) New Orleans was our all time favorite road trip experience.

We were(well, the pessimist that I am, was) reluctant at first about getting too excited to stay in the French Quarter since neither of us had been there since Katrina.  And, truthfully, there is still some significant damage left to undo.  Parts of the levy are still being held by sand bags, some shops and pubs remain boarded up with newspaper with sad, hopeful signs- "We Will Return", no promise of a date.  The biggest remnant is the increase in poverty- some poor soul tried to shine Rich's shoes-though, as everyone knows, Rich only wears flip-flops from March to November. After making this discovery himself, undeterred, he attempted to shine his toes instead.  A task worthy of more than a dollar after walking around all morning, I assure you. 

With that said, the revitalization that has taken place over the last three years is more than phenomenal.  The French Quarter is just as beautiful, if not more so now with a sense of purpose, than it was when I was last there at 16.  We stayed at the hotel, Maison Dupuy which we would highly recommend to anyone who is planning a visit-and you really should.  The staff were most helpful and friendly, we were not even two blocks away from the famed Bourbon Street, the pool was amazing and the rates in the summer time (considering it's the off-season sweatiness) were enough to make us consider extending our vacation-permanently.  

We ate enough Gumbo, Jambalaya and Crawfish Etouffe' at the famous Gumbo Shop to claim Creole roots (if ever you are to go, know that there will be a wait to eat-they don't take names, you just get in line-so, get a beer and chat with all the international tourists on line with you, it's totally worth it) and wandered the Parisian looking streets for hours at night, hovering in and out of jazz clubs and bars-beers in hand, since it's more than legal to walk around with drinks. Guess who kept reminding me of that?  Not being a night-owl, I have to say that New Orleans comes alive at night and it is an over-stimulus of color, movement and most of all, music.  Where else can you watch a terrible Bon-Jovi cover band directly next to the most engaging jazz clarinet player I've ever heard? Fascinating.   Side note for the more conservative- Bourbon St does have it's pitfalls, so if traveling with children I would suggest you steer clear of the side of the street advertising, "Boys Prettier Than Girls!" It will only make you uncomfortable having to explain what they mean, and angrier still if you do pass by and discover that they are right.  They are, in fact, prettier than you.  Sigh.

Our second day consisted of sweating through two changes of clothing, walking up and down the bank of the Mississippi, deciding that not even our travels were worth the thought of the buttons melting on my shirt and ending up at the pool with take-out po'boys for the rest of the day.  At night, again, more meandering wide-eyed and open-mouthed with Hurricanes as we wandered into the cutest little jazz bar called Fritzels where we met a lovely couple, Seth and Amy, with whom we shared a table (and some Absinthe for Seth and Rich, crazy kids) for the rest of the night.

New Orleans felt like a European vacation without having to leave the country.  We were certainly sad to have to leave, but satisfied in a strange way that this iconic location has reclaimed some ground.  It was bustling with people.  Most shops were up and running.  The food was fabulous.  The hotel was heavenly.  Good for you, New Orleans.  We will be back.

We then, after some deliberation decided to head to Atlanta- wanting really to spend some time in Savannah, but discovering it would be after 10 pm once we got there, we settled for Atlanta.  No one informed us that Atlanta is the convention capital of the world and it is a crazy thought that you will be able to 1. find a room anywhere in the city on a Saturday night and 2. if you do find a room, it will be nary under 170.00 bones.  HElllo.  So, we had already driven 5-6 hours, what was one more?  We headed to a little town outside of the city, got a perfectly decent room for 70.00, went swimming and crashed, visions of Voo-doo shops and Beignets still dancing around in our tired brains.

We drove home the next day.  Yes, you heard me correctly.  We drove HOME to New Jersey from Atlanta, GA all in one day.  We couldn't officially call ourselves road-trippers without driving more than a 10 hour stretch, could we?  As you can tell, it wasn't the brightest idea considering, we got home on Monday and I haven't really been coherent enough to write a concluding update until this very morning.

The purpose of this trip as stated in previous posts was basically to breathe.  To get a fresh perspective on things.  To be open and listening to what God may or may not be calling us to do, whether that means relocating or not.  It was to spend some time with friends who really live up to their Jesus-follower titles-and that was more than encouraging.  It was to see how God is moving in other parts of the country, to remember what it is like to simply enjoy being in one another's company with nothing but a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee and the open road. 

I'm not going to be as cliche as to say it was life-changing experience, so instead, I will just tell you what has changed:

1.  Rich and I were able to breathe, to laugh, to eat, to pray and to believe that God has great plans for us

2.  God IS moving in different parts of the country, not unlike he is moving right here

3.  We are with ALL CERTAINTY not called to wave our confederate flags in surrender of a relocation to the south

With all of our urgency to get the heck out of New Jersey, the biggest thing we learned was how grateful we were for cool summer nights.  For 2 minute drives to the supermarket.  For the train to the city and the parkway for the shore in our backyard.  Most of all, for the people we love that are situated right here.

That seems to make being a Yankee worth it, y'all.  

Now that we're officially staying, I'm going to have work on that.

P.S.  anyone interested can find all of the pictures from our trip on flicker:

http://flickr.com/photos/richandjenny/

Raleigh, Nashville and other Hookey-Dookey

We've made it.  We're hardly wearing dirty clothing.  We've yet had to pan-handle.  Our car is still running- no  thanks to gas at 4.07 a gallon, thank you very much.  But we are here in sunny (sweaty) Nashville.

After leaving my Mom's quaint little town of Fuquay, we headed toward Raleigh-Durham to spend the night with Rich's college roommate Adam and his wife.  Adam and Steph are wonderful people and we owe them much for revealing to us that all of North Carolina does not consist of tobacco fields and crab shacks.  Raleigh is actually quite a fun college town to hang around in- we went for drinks at a cute little bar called the Raleigh-Times and Steph was kind enough to introduce me to her favorite haunt- Locopops.  Don't judge, people, it is the most fabulous store dedicated to gourmet popcicles.  Cherry Hybiscus, Mexican Chocolate...mmmmmm.

After attending the mega-church (our word and not theirs, they seem to find the fact that they have parking attendants in their church parking lot an every day occurrence), we headed out again to Nashville.

We seemed to have underestimated the distance between North Carolina and TN and after a beautiful 6 hour ride through the Smokey Mountains with at least 3 more to go, we decided that if we were going to make it to my friend Kelsie's house with both of us alive, it would probably be appropriate to stop for something to eat.  Thus, Lefty's was discovered.

We came upon a sign for good BBQ, and when in Rome....we had to stop.  Truth be told it was the most frightening looking place I've ever encountered.  Missing shingles.  Firewood strewn all over the parking lot.  Pick-up trucks just waiting to kidnap young Yankee girls, I'm sure.  Though I was a bit put off by the decor, Rich convinced me that these were the best kinds of places for good BBQ- so, I believed him and we went in.

He was right.  After a hefty pulled pork, baked beans and blackberry cobbler consumption we were on the road again and after another 3 hours, pulled into Kelsie's driveway in good old Nashville.

Yesterday, Rich and I proved our tourist title as we drove up and down Music Row, went to see the Grand Ole Opry, had lunch at the Broadway Brewery and met my friend Michael for another quick tour around neighboring towns before meeting his girlfriend, Emmy, for dinner.  We have been so blessed with beautiful people to hang out with along this trip, and dinner was lovely.  We hung out for a good part of the evening, even played a bit at Emmy's house before heading back to Kelsie's.

Today, we're taking it easy and taking advantage of Panera's WI-FI to update, catch up on some much needed caffeine intake, and plan out the rest of our trip and, er, our lives if we get around to it.

Next stop:

Memphis tomorrow for one night before moving on to New Orleans.

Observations:

1.  When someone from TN tells you that something is "just around the corner", expect at least a 45 minute drive..

2. never attempt to shoo a cat away from your shampoo bottle after she hisses at you-just let her eat it

3.  Texans have funny sayings that should never be repeated....unless making fun of said Texan;such as hookey dookey....love you, Adam!

4.  scary BBQ places have the best food

5.  good friends make even the south a fun place to be.

More later.....off we go!

Thoughts from the Road

Alright, we've done it. Rich and I threw some of our belongings into our (sweet) Scion and took to the open road. Those of you who are vastly aware of my anti-spontineity status, now would be the time to close your swinging jaws. Since we chose to be anti-planners for the next several weeks of the trip, I am uncertain of how often I may or may not be able to update our travels, but I do promise the four of you who read this I will do my very best to keep you abreast of our happenings.

A recap of our last few days are as follows:

July 1st

Fresh-faced and gleaming with visions of new adventures at 9:30a.m., we turned for the last time in several weeks onto the good ole' GSP with D.C. as our first destination.

After sitting for 4 hours in Deleware in bumper to bumper traffic and only slightly regretting our American road trip, we chose to entertain our traffic neighbors with "Here Comes the Sun."

Arrival in D.C. =$50 in gas
The book I finished in the passenger seat that was supposed to last me the whole trip=10.95
Hearing the words, " Mr. and Mrs. Shannon, it appears we have upgraded you to the King Suite. Is that suitable?" priceless

July 2nd
Alright. I believe we are the only two people in existance who saw all of D.C. in a little under three hours. And considering that this is my blog, I have chosen to be terribly honest. I was enamored with the White House, awed by the Lincoln Memorial(standing where MLK Jr. stood when delivering the "I Have a Dream" speech was quite a unique experience), enveloped by the beauty of the Smithsonian and moved to tears at the WWII and Vietnam memorials. But, my favorite part about our stay in D.C., you ask? Unashamedly I will answer: THE ROOFTOP POOL. I am unsure if this makes me as unpatriotic as that sounds. I am chosing not to care. You didn't see it, you have no idea. A pool. On the roof. Overlooking all of Washington D.C. Off the chain.

Leaving our King size bed and swimming extraveganza was difficult to do, but we had places to see, people to meet. We stopped in Richmond, VA along our way south and asked the portly parking attendant where the best place to grab a bite to eat would be. In his none-too-delicate southern drawl, he "reckoned" it would be the "Capital Ale House". Hearing the word "Ale", I had officially lost my husband in the pursuit of a good beer and a burger. Quite the understatement, I assure you. If ever you are in the Richmond area and are looking for a good beer garden, an upper and lower level bar and a crab BLT- Capital Ale is worth the trip.

A few local beer bottles in toe, we thanked the attendant for his top notch suggestion, and he hardly charged us for watching over our car and I quietly decided that if it wasn't so blasted hot, I could like the south. Just a little.

Our next stop was undecidedly Virginia Beach, longing for some sea salt and sand so I gave my mom a call from the car to update her on our trip. Come to discover, she's in Oak Island, NC where my family owns a beach house and informed us that if sand and sea were what we were after, there was no better place than Caswell Beach and the price would be right- yup, free. We're into free. So, we breezed past Virginia Beach's Holiday Inn and drove 5 more hours down to the very tip of N.C.

The beach house was quite literally the perfect label. It was, built right on the beach- like, I counted 15 steps from the deck to the waters edge. The water was warm, the sand was like powder and we camped out for 24 hours, leaving well rested and a little tanner. Well, Rich was anyway.

July 3-4
We're recharging in Fuquay-Varina, where my Mom has a house and, of course, our car already looks as though we've been traveling for weeks. So, we're cleaning up, doing some laundry and anticipating our next stop in Raleigh, to stay with Rich's friends Adam and Steph Parken.

A few observations so far about North Carolina:

1. All high ways smell like beef jerky
2. The best place to find a good wine is at the local Walmart
3. Dinner at Applebee's is close to a black-tie affair

Who knew?

Again, I'll do my best to update as much as possible. Until then, on the road again!

Shameless Plug

Alright.  I've gone back and forth on whether or not I should attempt to plug my book that was published just a few weeks ago.  I mean, we have the publicity thing pretty well under control- thanks to my amazing in-laws Tom and Jamie who launched the website and my friend I wrote it with is fantastic with that.  I don't want to be one of those people who can only talk about themselves and what they're doing with their lives.  I don't want to appear egotistical, God forbid.

And then, it hit me.  I'm a blogger.  How much more self-centered can you get than making a live journal open to the public with the belief that millions of readers will pour over your very, well calculated, witty word?  So, here it goes.

My friend and I wrote a book together about a year ago and it has since been published.  It's a delightful little tale about how we all can find and be comfortable with who we are.  It's entitled, "Finding Your Voice" and the really cool thing about it is it is written both in English AND in Spanish....yeah, I know.  It's genius.  Hey, if I'm going for shameless, I'm going all the way.  

Anyway, it's available for purchase at Amazon.com.... or simply check out the website for more details: www.morethanthemoon.com 

That's enough shameless self-promotion for now.  I'm going to go make a few phones calls to producers and taunt them with script ideas-but leave just enough time to hang that "Author lives here" sign in the front yard.

Vacation Shmation

Ahhh....summer vacation.  I've dreamt of this week often as I was answering questions, okaying kids to go to the bathroom, coming home smelling like pencil shavings and cafeteria goo.  It was like a fairy-tale that just got better over time.  I imagined  sitting out in the yard with a book and a glass of something tropical.  Waking to the sound of silence and having leisurely breakfasts at my favorite hole-in-the-wall diner.  Writing fervently, spinning stories of talking doves and pre-pubescent lightening bugs while sipping lattes in Starbucks.  Practicing the guitar until my finger-tips develop callouses my husband would be proud of.  Singing in the shower, on the side-walk, in the mall-to anyone who would listen, really.  So, after all of these lovely visions, should I tell you what I actually HAVE been doing the last two days?

I've cleaned the bathroom.  Twice.  I've taken out the garbage.  Twice. I've woken up at exactly 6:00, and not gone back to bed.  I've checked the mail eighty times even though I know our mail-lady likes to take her time and doesn't generally show until 2 in the afternoon.  I am continuously checking my e-mail in case I've missed something.  I've stressed at least 3 times a day already about how we're possibly going to make it through the summer without working, though I've garnished my pay-check for the last 5 months to secure the decision. Spurred by the financial stress, I've budgeting the up and coming year.  On several spreadsheets. Color-coded and organized by month. I've put all of my vacation days on the 2009 calendar.  

Lets face facts.  I am a worker.  And for some reason, in my warped little mind, if I am doing something I enjoy it cannot possibly be as important as doing work.  Or, work cannot possibly be something I enjoy.  So,  I have been wandering aimlessly the last two days feeling terribly guilty about not having to get up and go somewhere that I hate, where I would proceed to just wish that I was back at home.  Make sense? Of course not.  I seldom do.

So, this is my want-ad if you will.  If you are well-versed in leisure, have a PhD in vacation, have learned how to live life without guilt, or are doing something you absolutely love for "Work" I desperately need your assistance.  Help a sister in need.  I need some insight...and a fruity cocktail, perhaps.

When My Dad is Jesus

In light of Father's Day, I thought I would honor my Dad by making him the topic of my latest blog.  Before I receive any phone calls from concerned readers who think I have finally let high school students get to me and have gone off the deep end, I don't think my Dad is really Jesus.  Not technically, anyway.  

My Dad is a truck driver.  Last time I checked Jesus was a carpenter, but it's close enough to the burly-blue collar male persona every man wants to emulate.  Except, honestly, there really isn't anything burly or even blue collar about him.  He's very tall and very skinny, for one thing.  Just by looking at him, you couldn't tell he could lift very much.  He doesn't have any tattoos.  He doesn't smoke.  He HATES beer.  To the chagrin of his four daughters, he uses the phrase," you, dog" in place of obscenities.  My Dad may possibly be the most alien truck driver you have ever met.  I went to work with him several months ago, actually, and got to witness first-hand how weird my Dad actually is.

My Dad takes monthly drives to Boston where his company is based and is forever looking for a passenger to accompany him to make the all-inclusive 8-12 hour ride with the bribe of the open road and a Friendly's sundae.  I'm usually the sucker who says yes.  Granted, my other sisters generally fall asleep in the first hour and don't make very good company.  I, on the other hand, cannot sleep in the car let alone the rig of a tractor trailer and tend to chat incessantly the whole way until my throat hurts and we have to stop to get some coffee.  Which, truthfully, serves the both of us- I get to talk uninterrupted all about my grand ideas for my next novel or my philosophies on life or about the genre my album would be placed under, if I, in fact, ever record one and he gets to pay attention to something other than road kill and not fall asleep at the wheel.  

It's in the rig where my Dad seems most normal to me.  Shifting the ten-speed, complaining about the traffic that was inevitable on Rt. 84 by Hartford, drinking old coffee out of a styrofoam cup, dreaming about plots of land in Florida and pointing out motorcycles.  In the rig, being a truck driver fits my Dad who hasn't purchased a tie since bolos were cool, gets uncomfortable when he sits in one room for too long and whose hands look like they could palm hot coals and not feel a thing.  It's when we get to Boston when I realize what an anomaly my Father truly is.

Surrounded by men less than half his size (but double in girth) donning filthy Red Sox caps and greasy tee shirts, my Dad sticks out like a sore thumb. They all smile congenially when we show up, gap-toothed and broken bridges stained with years of strongly brewed coffee during the day, strongly brewed something else after hours, I'm sure.  They all seem to have ruddy cheeks like they've been standing firm in a wind storm at the Patriot's game just before we got there.  They have hearty belly laughs coming from hearty bellies that make me wonder how they get in and out of their trucks and if they rest their coffee cups on them while shifting gears.  They call my Dad all kinds of names that make my cheeks burn- apparently they haven't picked up on the "you,dog" quite yet-but he just laughs it off and playfully punches one of them in the arm.   

The whole warehouse smells like days old coffee, Brut aftershave, the chemicals they were loading into my Dad's truck, and, well, man dirt.  Yes, man dirt is what I said.  You know what I mean.  Running to the bathroom, I nearly knocked off a sign hanging on the door made out of a flap of an old cardboard box declaring," If you just have to piss, please use the urinal" and I wonder as I contemplated whether I should attempt the urinal or not just for kicks how my Dad who counts "piss" as a vial four-letter word works here with these people and seems to whole-heartedly enjoy it.

And then, I get it.  I'm working on this concept on how everybody has a little bit of Jesus in them.  I'm not talking about how "Jesus lives in your heart," and all that sunday school stuff, but how we as Christ-followers exhibit certain qualities that Jesus walked around with.  All of us.  So, my Dad's kinda like Jesus.  

He loves to be surrounded by people that other's have deemed "a little rough around the edges." The jokes we would have gotten a serious lecture for if he heard any one of us kids tell them, he uses as an in to ask his co-workers other personal questions about their lives.  You know that my Dad knows each and everyone of those truck driver's wives names? And their kids? And if they had mistresses, I bet he knows them too.  He knows where they live.  He knows where they went to college, or if they never did he knows the reason why. He knows whose going through a divorce, who just lost a child, who's struggling financially, who's kid just got accepted into Boston University and who got season tickets to the Sox-then teases them about it.  

My Dad never judges them.  The way they dress, the way they talk, the way they live.  He just happens to met them where they are and really love them.  The dirt, the warehouse chemicals and all.  That's Jesus.  That's the kind of Jesus I'd like to be.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.