The One That Will Never Get Away

10 Years. Ten of them – IN A ROW. It’s not a little mind boggling when I really stop to think about it. Other than exist, I’ve never done anything for 10 years straight. Well, all right; I’ve brushed my teeth and shaved my legs, but only to avoid the unfortunate consequences caused by not doing those things. Which are, of course, wookie legs and gingivitis.

On May 22nd of this year my husband and I celebrated 10 years of marriage. He came home with a bouquet roses, a juicy fillet and asparagus, and a bottle of champagne I sucked on until the very last drop slithered down my gullet. He also got me a little something, which turned out to be a lottle something, because I am easily delighted and slightly manic and tend to get excited and make a VERY BIG deal about little things. Done well, they’re better than big things, I think.

He bought a dozen bags of Skittles, in a variety of flavors, then separated them – one by one – into mason jars, creating his own “special blends.”

I’m not going to lie. He knocked this one outta the friggin’ park. Not only are they pretty to look at, a confection of color, jars of art, but — SKITTLES. Yum.

skittles

We celebrated the day by staying home, drinking the whole bottle of champagne, and watching Jimmy Fallon clips on YouTube. It was fabulous. We will do BIG celebrating this summer when we road-trip-it to San Francisco for TEN days! One for every year. That wasn’t intentional, but I rather like it; it’s fitting and feels right.

But to be honest, a decade ago, as I waited for the pastor come collect me and my entourage, Canon in D Minor wafting up the staircase, I wasn’t sure I would ever see ten years. Most brides are blushing and glowing and flicking scepters are their poor indentured bridesmaids doing everything from blotting spackled lips to waving thuribles to ward off evil spirits. I was calm, serene even. Frigid as my feet were, I knew I would say “I do.” It’s true I love a good spectacle every now and again, but my wedding, a 15k affair, wasn’t the time for one. I would marry my husband because I told him I would, and because he was a good man that would love me and take care of me. And I would do the same. For how long – that was the question. My heart was a mess and there were tears in my eyes; tears my guests mistook for tears of joy, as I glided down the staircase, smiling on cue, aware of the camera capturing what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I dutifully took my place beside my fiancé. A broken girl in a stunning white dress, I took his hands.

“We are gathered here today . . .”

The next thing I knew, ten years had passed. I decided to write my husband, Michael, a letter.

 

10th

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Royally Radical

Although there continues to be much debate over who said it first, you will probably, at least once in your lifetime, hear the words:

“With great power, comes great responsibility.”

I agree with this statement one hundred percent. I believe those inaugurated to a place of honor and power are not there simply to reap the glory of an elevated status, but have been given the privilege to serve a greater purpose than themselves. And now, if I am being completely honest, I am not so certain I would want to be one of them, or have great power thrust upon me.

In theory it sounds quite nice — I picture fur-lined slippers ready at the door (animal friendly, of course; I’ll eat them, but I don’t wear them); my favorite foods arriving on silver platters; there’s always an extra side of Ranch Dressing, and I never have to ask someone to refill my Cherry-Pepsi. The bath water is salted, hot, the way I like it — but not scalding. My hair, my make-up, my toes and fingernails, always look perfect — not an overgrown cuticle or hangnail to be sighted. But beyond these trifles and the lap of luxury, I imagine there is a good amount of work involved in the position meriting such fussing over: Big decisions to be made. Endless meetings. A constant influx of paper-work to sort though. Yikes!

Just speaking frankly here  . . . as much as I love trifles, in this case I really don’t think there is enough of them in the world to soften the lead-footed load of Greater Responsibility. No, Sir, no thank you. I’ll take the dress and the shoes (both purchased at TJMAXX), and pass on the title and the crown; those things look terribly heavy, anyway. What I am saying is that I would not choose to be Royal.

If you live in The United States, you know that a child born of a U.S. president is not bequeathed a title at birth, nor are they expected to carry on their father’s legacy. There are several differences between our country and that of those residing across the oceans, but I won’t pretend to be versed in any of them. My knowledge begins and ends with what my husband imparts on me, and moreover, what actually sticks.

The one difference, however, which stands out to me is the one I mentioned above. In America we “run” for office, and then, upon winning the election, move into that wicked-awesome white house, the, ahem, White House. But in England, you are simply entitled to the trappings of wealth by heritage and birthright. One might assume the former would endow in the person a sense of gratefulness and humility; how wonderful it must feel to know you were picked, chosen among all the rest. Who doesn’t like to be chosen, right? I love being chosen. And above all, it’s an honor you asked for.

But, in the latter, I wonder if there is this feeling of resentment, this air of “Well, I didn’t have any say in the matter, so you can’t expect anything of me.” Doesn’t seem all that un-fair minded; not when you really think about it. If someone were to knock on my door, place in my right hand the keys to my new Rolls and tricked-out Mansion, then place in my other hand a six-inch manual outlining my responsibilities from there on out, well . . . I think I would probably give my patron a toothy smile, shut the door slowly, then turn out all the lights and hide in the shower.

I’ll cream my own bagel, me thanks you kindly.

This morning there appeared in my news-feed a story about the Royal Couple, Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and the Duchess Catherine. I don’t keep tabs on these two, or any celebrities for that that matter. I don’t know – I’ll admit I glance at the tabloids when I’m checking out at the grocery store, but I never buy them. It doesn’t seem right to spy on their lives when they haven’t the same opportunity. And thank GOD for that, because I’ll tell ya, I’ve committed some doozies. An-nee-way . . . a month ago Kate gave birth to a beautiful boy. It made the headlines, of course, and the couple proudly showed off their progeny, but eschewed all gifts — save for one: A painting from a 43 year-old woman with Down Syndrome. It’s gorgeous, check it out.

Royal painting

The couple’s decision to accept this gift stirred up quite a spectacle. Here’s why:

“In England, there always has been a stigma attached to (Down syndrome), and now that is washed away by the fact that the Duke and Duchess have accepted that painting,’’ Moffat told TODAY. “For this to happen, it’s kind of turned that negativity around.”

Wow . . . now that’s some Royally Radical character. *high-fives the Duke and Duchess*

Will and Kate – Hi, my name is Cara, and I’m available for tea, anytime. Call me, you know, if you want to, but please do, okay bye.

Kate and will

Lighting it up,

~ Cara

Related articles:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/12/will-kate-painting-gift_n_3915196.html?ir=Parents

What? Who? Me?

Blog of the Year Award 6 star jpeg

Kim, over at silentlyheardonce.wordpress.com, surprised me a week or so ago by presenting me with this very unexpected award. Kim writes lovely poetry, born of a passionate soul. She writes honestly and openly, sharing her thoughts without fear. Also, she supports her followers by consistently re-blogging their material. Her blog is one I enjoy on many occasion. Just do it. Go visit her, and tell her I said hello, please.

When I say I don’t feel worthy of accepting this award, it is not an act of self-deprecation, but truly a sense of genuine unworthiness. This is because, as of late, I have neither engaged in blogging, nor have I been diligent in reading very many blogs. Some of you will know my plate is a bit full right now, and some days I have just enough energy to smile and remind myself that God is Good. He is Good and His will is divine.

That said, I am astoundingly honored, Kim, so thank you!

From the creators of the award:

The ‘rules’ for this award are simple:

1 Select the blog(s) you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award.

2 Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award.

3 Please include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award –http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-awards/blog-of-the-year-2012-award/ and include these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!).

4 Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them.

5 You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience.

6 As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…!

You will find all of the info plus the Awards with 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6 stars upon them here

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A Writer and her Psychologist

It began in October of 2002, with tender embraces and lingering caresses; the way we held each other during the incipient stage, is how the branches cleave to their blooms in the autumn.

Don’t let go, they seem to say. Hold on tighter. Just a few days more.

We couldn’t bear to be away from one another, and because of that, often spent countless hours — not to mention tanks of gas — commuting back and forth from Orange to Dana Point, roughly 35 miles separating us.

The nights Michael arrived on my doorstep, well after he should have gone on home to bed, and after a 10 hour shift at On The Border (a Mexican restaurant where he waited tables), were some of the most exhilarating nights of my life.

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