I "glitterally" can't take it anymore

When did I become a "nails" girl? But there I was...at the salon again with Sydney...agonizing over color selections. "I think this pale pink," I finally said. "You should get an accent nail, Mom," Sydney encouraged. I frowned. Bad enough that I was now a "nails" girl...did I want to take that slippery slope further and become an "accent nail" girl?

Suddenly I brightened. "Do you have black glitter polish?" I asked. The technician scowled and reminded me that it wasn't Halloween. I assured him that I knew it wasn't Halloween. "I'm making a spiteful statement," I declared. "Pink glitter would be pretty," he advised. I then realized that we were having an accent problem as we debated the color of my accent nail. "No," I tried again, "I'm attempting to be vengeful and petty. Pink is not vengeful and petty." I then launched into my story of the now infamous March war against my happy, bubbly, peppy, positive pal Erin...the spirited spring sheep to my grouchy lion. Erin's weapon of choice:  Glitter. According to Erin: Glitter makes EVERYTHING better. Let's see how she likes THIS, I thought vindictively. "Pink is pretty," my technician insisted.

Sydney sighed as I continued to fight my way through the language barrier. "Is spending thirty bucks on a black accent nail really worth all this trouble?" she asked as the technician and I wrestled for control of my ring finger. "Absolutely," I shouted as I threw a great-big-ol'-American fit in the nail salon. I finally got my way when my technician realized his tip was in jeopardy but I appreciated his dedication to the craft. He is, after all, an artist with a discerning eye of palette colors. And I'm a nail neanderthal who habitually wears black shoes with brown pants.  But the heart wants what the heart wants.

Disappointingly, Erin was delighted when I showed her my nails. "Ooooo, glitter!" she squealed happily. Clapping. Bouncing a bit. Ugh. Less than 24 hours later, she'd re-done her own nails in PINK GLITTER and immediately sent me a picture. Depressed, I texted Sydney and told her that I'd failed in my mission. "That's too bad," Sydney Lynn commiserated, "I would have thought you'd have totally nailed it this time."

"Bowled" over at the hair salon

It all more or less began with my friend, Michelle...who is pretty like Jaclyn Smith from the Charlie's Angels days. Michelle is also kind and creative and smart and is raising beautiful children.  Naturally, I despise her. This also marks the first point where the Lord gently tried to put the brakes on but, as usual, I was full-throttle. "Amy," Michelle said to me two weeks ago, flashing me her Farrah Fawcett grin "I had a dream about you." She went on to describe how, in her dream, I had gotten a flattering hair cut. After Michelle left, my first concern was how very boring her dreams were. Then I began to panic and every neurosis I possess began screaming that if one of the most beautiful women I know...recognizes at a subconscious-level, that I need a haircut...by golly...I BETTER get a haircut.

But in the back of my mind, a small voice reminded me that School Picture Day would be soon approaching and I DO NOT have a good record going into that event. Also, the voice wondered, wasn't it Michelle who tried to trick you into drinking a protein puddle of sludge? I failed to recognize this Voice of Reason as the Lord's as I wouldn't have figured Him for a hair guy. Obviously, I forgot about Sampson.

So Saturday, I was DETERMINED to fulfill Michelle's dream of getting my hair cut. First, I tried getting into Haughty Hair...a snootie-patootie salon...where women not only went to get their hair styled but also to have their hair repaired and rejuvenated. Apparently, my hair required a resurrection so Haughty Hair was a no-go for me. I was escorted pretty enthusiastically out their art-deco doors. Undaunted...this was, after all, my destiny...I headed over to the Hair Lair. The women in this salon were not quite as disgusted by my arrival but admitted that they were unable to perform miracles. Could I come back during the week? After dark? I slunk out of the second salon.

This is hurting me more than it's hurting you, The Voice said, but how many more signs can I offer you to let you know that TODAY is not your day of transformation? Stubbornly, I pushed the small voice away ("Sigh," said the Lord, rolling His eyes, "It's your hair's funeral.") and drove to the Shear Shed. It was located next to a military recruitment center. Noticing that they didn't have any chairs, I plopped myself down on the long bench among the half dozen men also waiting for service. Rummaging through the wide variety of magazines, I finally settled on a periodical devoted to guns and accessories. I admired the factory precision applied to the men currently being serviced. B-u-z-z....b-u-z-z...b-u-z-z...the electric shavers fairly flew. Before I knew it...it was my turn! Seeing me, the stylists huddled up in what looked to be a heated debate. A lively game of rock/paper/scissors was conducted and the winner got me!

"How much do you want off?" she asked, spraying a garden hose on my head as I settled into my chair. I admired the MLB toiletry bag decorating each mirrored shelf. I wondered what I had to do to score one of those for Brad. "Three inches, please," I said confidently ("Sigh," sighed the Lord.). "Do you realize what three inches looks like?" she inquired doubtfully. I sat up straight in the chair and winked at her. I'd been waiting for that line my entire adult life. "Actually, I don't," I admitted, "How could I when my whole basis for comparison is eight inches?" The room exploded in applause. I received a standing ovation and two offers for drinks later at a bar called McGrubby's. I told them I'd have to check with my husband. Getting back to business, I tried to tell my stylist about Michelle's dream but apparently she was no longer interested in conversing with me. Five minutes later, I was done. I put on my glasses, thinking that maybe I'd look like a young Kate Jackson from Charlie's Angels. I gasped. Nope...forget Jaclyn, Farrah, and Kate...I looked like Bosley. "When did you put a bowl over my head?" I asked the stylist incredulously. I heard her mutter something about "Never-mind....bowl...head...rather...noose...neck..." but I couldn't quite make it out. Attempting to salvage the day, I asked about the toiletry bag and learned I would need to upgrade from the basic shaving service. I politely declined, paid, tipped her for my bowl cut and, sporting a nifty case of helmet head, I hustled out of there. School Picture Day...here I come! ("Sigh," sighed the Lord.).

When did "pray" become a four-letter word?

Texting my friend Sarah:  I was just accused of saying a certain word too much. Can you guess which word?

Sarah:  Ooooooohhhhh! This sounds fun!

Sarah:  "Accountable?"

Sarah:  "Lazy?"

Sarah:  "Better boy plan?"

Sarah:  "Poop particle?"

Me:  Wow. I guess I DO overuse a LOT of words! No...the word was "pray."

Okay...I admit it. I am occasionally guilty of using the word pray in a somewhat fast-and-loose fashion and ONCE IN AWHILE (though rarely) in a self-advantageous manner. For example, when I am asked, on-the-spot, to volunteer for an activity that I have NO desire or (gasp) no INTENTION of doing, I will ask for time to prayfully consider the request (and then I run away...aspiring never to return). I am ashamed. I have been known...again, in isolated instances...to joke that a matter constructed from human foible or lack of foresight might require prayer. For this, I am moderately repentant (and also say, "Get a grip, guys! It's just a joke! Get your head out of your...oops. Allow me to interrupt this brief moment of outrage with penitent prayer).

But prayer has become such a natural part of my life that I can see where some might interpret it as trite. Especially coming from me. I do not stand out as a shining star when it comes to being the Lord's representative. Praying over the Pepsi vending machine might seem excessive and unnecessary but I would contend that I am not the only one to have uttered a word of thanks to God when that sweet salvation is delivered. I recently laid hands on our school's copier...trusting that only the power of my Creator could prevent that machine from jamming up on every third document. "What is Amy doing?" someone asked as they walked into the quiet room. "Shhhh...she's healing the copier," my friend Jill said. I thank God when I miss hitting a deer. I ask His help in getting Savannah's foster dog adopted. I pray CONSTANTLY for patience in the classroom. "You talk to the ceiling a LOT," one of my 4th graders once told me.

"I just think that some people might feel uncomfortable when you tell them that you're praying for them," Savannah tried to explain. Naturally, I was outraged. "Un-com-fort-able?" I screeched, drawing out each syllable for emphasis, "Well...f[@% that!" "O-kay..." Savannah said slowly, "Wow. We're really hitting both sides of the spectrum here."

I was really feeling flummoxed here. Obviously, adapting to the Christian World after having spent so much of my leisure time in the land of secular living was challenging. I used to want to punch people in the face when they asked for Jesus's help in finding their car keys. Surely Jesus had MUCH more important things to do. For goodness sake, what are car keys in the wake of floods, disease, drought, and disorder? First of all...shame on me for dictating what God should care about. It is not my job to prioritize His actions. And who am I to presume what is truly important? I am certainly not privy to God's plan. I am grateful when He shows up in the small details of my life. For me...it is comforting and miraculous.

Many people scoff at prayer. They want human action. Volunteer. Give money. Get off your ass. Actually "help." I was selfish BEFORE I became a Christian. I am selfish NOW that I am a Christian. But prayer for others is a truly selfless act. When I say that I'm praying for you...and I do...my thoughts, my heart, my soul is focused on YOUR needs. I am begging God to intercede on your behalf. For me...that is infinitely more powerful than the card I might send...the pie I might bake...the donation I might make. So yeah. I will volunteer (or make my husband volunteer for me). I will give money. I will get off my ass. But first I'll get on my knees. And pray.