Top 10 Break-Up Songs Thursday, Aug 30 2012

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There’s nothing quite like a good break-up song. Trust me, I should know. I was in a perpetual state of actively breaking up with my ex or trying to move on after one of our many break-ups from September 2002 until I met my husband in 2011.

In fact, my marathon break-up went on for so long that I, and many of my friends and family members, were beginning to think that I would NEVER move on and would end up a Dickensian tragedy — like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations, alone in a dark, dank, cobweb-covered room, commiserating about unrequited love while still wearing a musty wedding gown and seated alongside a moldy, rat-eaten wedding cake (or, in my case, clinging to a dusty bottle of CVS wine and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s while watching made-for-cable movies on Lifetime in sweatpants and bunny slippers).

Fortunately for me, and for all those in my inner-circle who were stuck in Groundhog Day due to my ceaseless whining and bitching about my ex, I eventually moved on. One of the things that helped me finally move forward was my mack-daddy compilation of break-up songs — a playlist I named “Detach!” for obvious reasons.

Although I am now happily married, I still love listening to my “Detach!” playlist and belting out the soul-edifying songs that played such an integral part in shaping my personal history.

So for all of you who are in the midst of a break-up or who have ever stood at the precipice of heartbreak, here’s my list of Top 10 Break-Up Songs.

I hope everyone has a wonderful, safe Labor Day weekend.  — Marilyn

10.  Better Off Alone by Katherine McPhee

9.   Undo It by Carrie Underwood

8.   I’m Moving On by Rascall Flatts

7.   Over You by Daughtry

6.   Since You’ve Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

5.   Goodbye to You by The Veronicas

4.   A Little Stronger by Sara Evans

 3.   Forget You by Cee Lo Green

 2.   I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor

 1.   Any song ever sung by Adele***

 ***Disclaimer: I had not yet discovered Adele when I was going through my break-up-from-Hell. As I have since learned, all break-ups should be graded on a scale of 1 to Adele because the album she wrote while reeling from her own heartbreak is phenomenal. Now that I know about Adele, I can’t get enough of her music, and I would be remiss if I did not give her entire anthology of you-screwed-me-over songs the #1 spot.

 Honorable Mentions:

No More Drama by Mary J. Blige

Gives You Hell by the All American Rejects

I Didn’t Know My Own Strength by Whitney Houston

Pray for You by Jaron and the Long Road to Love

Time for Me to Fly by REO Speedwagon

Leave (Get Out) JoJo

Irreplaceable by Beyonce’

Lesson in Leavin’ by Jo Dee Messina

I Can’t Hate You Anymore by Nick Lachey

Strange by Reba McEntrie

I Don’t Want You Back by Laura Izibor

No More Tears (Enough is Enough) by Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer

Better in Time by Leona Lewis

Stronger by Britney Spears

Kiss This by Aaron Tippin

Fighter by Christina Aguilera

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(E)Mail Order Bride, or How I Met My Husband Wednesday, Aug 29 2012

In honor of the upcoming one year anniversary of our first date on the first of September, I dedicate this post to my loving husband Michael.  Here’s the back story on how we met . . .

In January 2011, I was reeling from the slow, tortuous death of my non-relationship with my daughter Madison’s father.   I had been seeing him for years on and off and,  after eight years and one child together, he still felt uncomfortable with “titles” or any commitment whatsoever that lasted longer than a head-cold.  So, in January 2011, after Madison’s father had moved on to his next long-term non-girlfriend, I sat down and wrote out my New Year’s Resolution.  “I will go out on one date in 2011.”  That was my entire New Year’s Resolution – go on ONE date.  Easy enough, right?  Hardly.

Fast forward to July.  Seven months had gone by and I had not gone out on a single date.  How was I even supposed to date?

First, I was a busy lawyer.

Second, I was a single mother of a Kindergartener.  It took an Act of Congress to go to the hair salon, much less out on a date.

Third, I was older than I had ever been on a first date and felt like I couldn’t attract a mosquito, much less a desirable man.

Fourth, I didn’t want any strange man (all of whom were assumed to be deviants until proven otherwise) around my daughter.

Fifth, I had not been out on a real date (other than when I would take Madison’s father out and foot the bill) since 2004!  (I was briefly set up with an arborist with a penchant for motorcycles but it fell apart after a couple months when he figured out that I was NEVER getting on the back of his Harley.)

Sixth, and most importantly, I hated men (well, at least one man in particular) and thought it might be better to live out the rest of my days unattached than to suffer the pain of another failed relationship.

So there I was at the end of July 2011 with nary a date to speak of and little opportunity to meet eligible bachelors in my everyday life.  What’s a girl to do?  I had to take affirmative action.  At the urging (read:  begging) of friends, I turned to Match.com for assistance.  After a few cringe-worthy dates, I was just about ready to throw in the towel.  But, there was this one guy — Michael, a structural engineer who had sent me a friendly message of introduction my second day on Match.  Initially, I dismissed Michael as being way too nice, intelligent, employed, and emotionally healthy for serious consideration.  We chatted on-line a few times about our children (both of us had one child in elementary school) and our careers, but I didn’t feel compelled to drive by his house in the middle of the night or drunk text him so I thought we lacked “chemistry.”  I did not accept his first two requests for a date.

After about a month of conversing with Michael on-line, I was talking on the phone with my brother Will, and an email appeared in my in-box from Michael:  “I’m going to give this one more try.   Your profile says your favorite restaurant is The Ravenous Pig, and I work nearby.  Would you meet me there for drinks?”  When I read the email, while still chatting with my brother, I said aloud, “Oh, man, this guy is asking me out again.”  Will said, “What guy?”  I explained the situation to Will and he inquired, “What’s wrong with him?”  I said, “Nothing.  Absolutely nothing is wrong with him.  That’s the problem.”  He replied, “Well, why don’t you go out with him?”  I said,  “He seems too nice.  We wouldn’t have anything in common.”  My brother, knowing me all too well, encouraged me to try something different and “give the nice guy a chance” for once in my life.

Me with my sage brother Will

The rest is history.  Michael and I met and, after a semi-disastrous first date, he kept asking me out.  At first, our dates were friendly but far from the emotional rollercoaster ride I remembered from years gone by.  I struggled with thinking that we were just destined to be great friends and to help each other out as single parents.  After all, after numerous dates, Michael had not even kissed me.  Who ever heard of such a thing?

After a month and a half and our fifth date, Michael finally kissed me.  What followed was nothing short of an epiphany.  I realized that I can be wildly attracted to a good man who will treat me well.  Several months later Michael and I were engaged, and we were married last May.  Some people thought we were crazy for getting married after only nine months, but it wasn’t crazy.  Crazy was wasting eight years of my life on someone who didn’t value me.   That was crazy.  What I have with Michael is just right.  And when it’s right, you know it.

And that’s the story of how a bitter spinster with a bum magnet resolved to go out on “one date” in 2011 and ended up a first-time bride at the age of 42.  I’m so glad I listened to my brother and gave the “nice guy” a chance.

Michael loves to quip that he ordered me on-line and got free shipping.  Indeed, he did.

With our children on our wedding day.

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Top 10 Things I Didn’t Know About Being Married Friday, Aug 24 2012

Michael and I on our wedding day; May 2012.

Beginning today, I’m starting a new Friday feature on my blog — a “Top 10” list covering a variety of topics that will probably be of interest only to me and my mother.  The first Top 10 list is in honor of my dear husband Michael and in commemoration of our 3-month wedding anniversary.

Top 10 Things I Didn’t Know About Being Married:

10.   That having a grown man and a tween boy invade my girl palace would prove to be a major test of my character.

9.     That blending families is not as easy as blending margaritas.

8.     That it takes a while to become accustomed to calling my husband to check-in before agreeing to meet the girls for happy hour.

7.     That I don’t spend nearly as much money now that someone else is monitoring my day-to-day spending.

6.     That, for me personally, being a married parent of two is harder than being a single parent of one.

5.     That even though I finally have a built-in date to escort me to a multitude of dinner parties, charitable events, and social gatherings, I would rather stay home than go out.

4.     That I still need time to myself.

3.     That I may never come home to a neat house again.

2.     That I still have the same hopes, fears, insecurities, dreams, and interests I had when I was single.

1.      That even though I’m a newylwed, I still don’t shave my legs every day.

I love you, Michael!  Thanks for being a saint, a masochist, or both, and making me your bride.

Have a wonderful weekend, all.

-Marilyn

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Like Mother, Like Daughter Friday, Aug 24 2012

Madison, First Grade

The new school year has begun and with each school year comes challenges.  A recurring challenge in my home involves my 6 year-old daughter Madison.  You see, Madison likes to talk A LOT.  Understanding this innate truth about my sweet child, I let her first grade teacher in on this poorly kept secret last week on “Meet the Teacher” night.  The teacher introduced herself and I quickly turned the conversation to Madison and gave the teacher the 411.  “Hi, how you doin’, what a darling classroom, so anyway this is Madison and she is a smart girl who is extremely gregarious.  Basically, she never shuts up.  When her mouth is going 100 mph in class, just understand that I warned you and, if it makes you feel any better, she won’t be quiet for me either and I’ve been living with her for six years.  So good luck with that and have a nice year.”

On the second day of school, Madison brought home a note from her teacher for talking too much in class.   Here we go.  When she sheepishly brought me the note, I looked into her giant blue eyes and  said, “Well, honey, at least you made it to the second day.”  I then launched into my now-familiar lecture about the importance of listening, being respectful, learning to keep her mouth shut, not interrupting, yada, yada, yada.

When I was finished with my lecture, Madison passionately argued in her defense.  “But, Mom, the teacher NEVER lets me talk.  I raised my hand and she saw me and, you know what she did, Mom?  She IGNORED me, Mom!  She totally ignored me!  Can you believe that?  And guess what else, Mom?  If you get in trouble one time in the morning, you’re in trouble for the whole day.  The WHOLE DAY, Mom!”  (Sniff.  Sniff.  Cue fake tears for dramatic effect.) 

As Madison was pouring her heart out to me about the injustice of being silenced, my mind flashed back to my own elementary school experience.  I was a very good student, but whenever I would bring my report card home for my mother’s signature, it nearly always included one poor mark — “Needs Improvement in Talking.”  My dear mother would express her disappointment and sternly caution me against being so talkative.  She would ask me to do better next time, and I promised to try, but I continued to face criticism for talking too much.

Once, in third grade, my teacher asked for a volunteer to read from our story book.  There I was, waving my hand frantically in the air, practically leaping out of my tiny desk trying to get the teacher’s attention.  She looked right at me — right through me — and had the audacity to call on some other kid.  What the …?!  Who does this broad think she is?  To show my displeasure, I stuck my tongue out at the teacher when I thought she wasn’t looking.  Unfortunately for me, she was looking and all Hell broke loose when she caught me with my tongue still jutted out and my nose wrinkled in disdain.  I was written up, sent to the Principal’s office for an inquisition, and ratted out via rotary dial to my mother.  With all of the hullabaloo, I felt like I had committed the unpardonable sin.   Thou shalt not stick thy tongue out at thy teacher, so saith the Lord. 

In hindsight, I think I got a bad rap for being a Chatty Cathy.  After all, the gift of gab has served me well in life.  I always made As on all my speeches and presentations when other kids practically passed out or had an anxiety attack if they had to say a word in public.  Many of those quiet, well-behaved children didn’t have the chutzpah or self-confidence to make themselves heard,  while I sailed through college and law school, winning awards and competitions for public speaking.  When I became an attorney, I initially worked as a prosecutor in my local state attorney’s office where I got to say super cool stuff like, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on behalf of the Great State of Florida, I submit to you that the defendant is GUILTY beyond and to the exclusion of any reasonable doubt!”  Eventually, I landed where I am today — a corporate litigator who is essentially paid to talk — a virtual mouthpiece-for-hire.  Along the way, I’ve held a variety of leadership positions, including President of the Future Business Leaders of America in high school, President of the Criminal Law Association in law school, and President of the local chapter of the Federal Bar Association.  Needs Improvement in Talking?  Ha!  I think not.

After signing the first (but certainly not the last) teacher’s note of the school year, I hugged my spirited little girl tight, encouraged her to try better tomorrow, and sent her off to do her homework.  As she walked away, I hoped she wouldn’t look back and catch me grinning.

Marilyn, First Grade

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In Defense of Plus Size Models Sunday, Aug 19 2012

Me as a super-sized toddler.

I’m nearly 6 feet tall and shall we say “big-boned.” Always have been.  I was pushing 5’10 by age 15 and towered over nearly everyone at school.  One of my sisters who was petite and cute as a button used to jokingly refer to me as “Big Mare” growing up, which she later shortened to the universal acronym for going #2 – “B.M.”  That did wonders for my fragile self-esteem.  Anyway, I digress.  Despite my considerable heft, I was a reasonably attractive lass who was crazy tall and had a great head of hair and big blue eyes so all was not lost.

On several occasions during my youth, well-meaning old ladies from church or around town would stop me and say, “Marilyn, bless your heart, you should be a model.”  As my head swelled and I prepared to feign my humble gratitude, the old bats would usually add something like “really, honey, you’d make a great PLUS SIZE model.”   Feigned humility quickly devolved into righteous indignation.  “What?!  Moi, a plus size model?  Bite me, ladies.  You must have cataracts.”  I mean, seriously, I didn’t even wear plus size clothes.  I was like a 12 and well within the weight range for my height, thank you very much.  Plus size.  Blech.

Twenty-five years and 50 pounds later, I have developed a new admiration for plus size models.  As I passed 30 in the rear-view mirror and settled into my cush-but-sedentary legal career, my big bones just kept on getting bigger.  In fact, they got downright huge when I had my daughter at the not-so-tender age of 36.  Unlike other women, who start out as a size 6 and have to work their way into the “Women’s” department, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump for this Amazon to go from shopping in the “normal” section into the land of elasticized waistbands and freedom fabric.  To this day, when I’m asked to help one of the fantasically rotund shoppers grab an item off the top shelf or find myself grabbing for the same sweater as a Richard Simmons devotee driving a Little Rascal, I say to myself, “But I’m so tall.  I shouldn’t be here.”

Plus size in Paris, on my honeymoon. May 2012.

Despite my chagrin over my expanding bones, I am now a bona fide plus size woman.  It may have taken a couple decades, a baby, and a large arse to gain perspective, but I realize that being compared to a plus size model is a major compliment.  Not only are plus size models beautiful, I think they put their Skeletor counterparts to shame.   Don’t believe me?  Let me present my case using some examples from my favorite clothing store, Talbots.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

EXHIBIT C:

In case you didn’t notice, these models are wearing the exact same outfits.  In what universe do the emaciated “regular” models look better than the plus-size models?  Different maybe, but better?  Also, where does Talbots get off labeling concentration-camp-chic as “regular” and calling these perfectly fit models (who I can assure you don’t even shop in the Women’s department) “plus size.”  What a crock.  I rest my case.

I wish I could go back in time, retract the snarky responses and dirty looks I gave to those sweet old ladies, and just accept their compliment.  Me?  A plus size model?  I wish!

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Ranidaphobia: Fear of Frogs Saturday, Aug 18 2012

I hate frogs.  No, I don’t mean like a rational dislike of frogs, I mean a deep-seated, all-encompassing hatred of the amphibious pests.  Growing up, I lived in rural Manatee County, on the West Coast of Florida, down a long, washboard dirt road.  The road dead-ended at my house — a simple one-story ranch with a car port and front porch.  Our home was surrounded by an acre of mossy oak trees and dozens acres more of pasture land for the cattle to graze.  It was a wonderful place to grow up, in most respects.  But we had a very slimy, very green problem around my childhood home … we were lousy with frogs.  Now, being in Florida, you’d expect to encounter some frogs here and there, especially after a good rain, but we had a full-on plague of Exodus proportions at our house.  There were frogs on the car port, frogs on the porch railings, frogs on the chains of the porch swing, frogs lined on the back of rocking chairs.  Even inside the house, which didn’t have air conditioning until I was 16, there were always frogs stuck on the window screens in every room of the house.  They’d be there taunting us, flashing their über-gross soft underbellies, and I’d make a point to go around and thump those screens as hard as I could to send those nasty frogs flying.

The frogs had a particular fondness for our front porch which made frog encounters a daily occurrence.  The front door, in particular, was such a frog haven that no one in my family would dare use it because there was a 90 percent chance that one or more tree frogs would jump from the top of the door right onto your head as soon as you opened the door.  When some stranger was lost and needed directions, or wanted to sell us encyclopedias or vacuum cleaners, they’d drive up to our house, ring the doorbell, and wait patiently outside that front door.  The sound of the doorbell gripped us with fear.  “Who’s going to be the one to open the front door?”  “What if the frogs jump on the sweet little old lady peddling Watchtower pamphlets?”  Even worse, “what if the frogs jump on ME and then get in our house?”  Usually, one of us would just go out the car port door and wave the visitor over to the frog-free side of the porch.  Every once in a while, though, someone would get brave or complacent and forget about the frog colony hiding there above the door.  Let me tell you, there was nothing quite like seeing my sister Melissa, with her sky-high blond 80s hairdo, nonchalantly strutting out the front door to our house like she didn’t have a care in the world.  One second, Melissa would be full of sass with her hips swinging and her nose up in the air, and the next she’d be doing the frog Mambo all over the front porch which involved running around frantically, screaming “get it off, get it off!” like a banchee, and giving herself whiplash trying to free the entangled frogs from their Aquanet prison.

Me and my siblings circa 1988, with Melissa in the front row on the left.

After dark, even the safe zone on the porch was overtaken by a convoy of fat toad frogs.  God help us if we left the house to go out to dinner and forgot to turn on the car port light.  We’d come home later that evening to a pitch black car port, with nothing but the moon and stars for illumination.  Tiptoeing out of the station wagon, we just knew toads were everywhere underfoot.  “Oh no, I think I squished one.”  “Oops, I kicked one on accident.”  Traveling those five feet from the backseat of the stationwagon to the door was like walking through frog-infested quicksand.  I’d hold my breath until I got inside to safety.  When I’d flip on the car port light, I’d inevitably see a half dozen toad frogs lounging around the welcome mat, much to my disgust.

I can’t tell you how many times my mama tried to talk me off the ledge and calm me down when I was having a frog-induced meltdown.  “Marilyn, don’t be silly, honey.  A little ole frog can’t hurt you.”  Daddy, however, exploited his children’s collective fear of frogs for his personal amusement.  He made a game of chasing us around the house with cupped hands threatening to toss a frog on us as we squealed, lept over furniture, and fled down the hall to our bedrooms to escape, stuffing pillows under the door for good measure.

As I got older, you might think that my frog phobia would have lessened.  Au contraire, it fluorished into full-blown mania.  When I was old enough to drive, I’d park my spiffy Dodge Shadow under a sprawling oak tree in the front yard where a legion of tree frogs would haunt me day and night.  As soon as the coast was clear, I swear those frogs high-fived each other with the sticky pads of their webbed feet and gleefully drew straws to see which one of them could terrorize me next.   Their mission was simple but highly effective.  They’d slip their slimy little bodies into the tiny opening around the door frame of my car above the driver’s side door.   When I’d go out to get in my car, a tree frog would jump out and scare the bejesus out of me, causing me to say all manner of four-letter words.  You’d think, statistically, I’d have at least a 50 percent chance of the frog jumping away from the car instead of inside the car but, noooooo, those blasted frogs would jump inside my car nearly every dang time.

So how would I, a smart, sophisticated, mature, and responsible young woman, deal with this minor inconvenience?  I would FREAK OUT, of course!   I’m talking TOTALLY LOSE IT.  I’d cry and wail and wrend my garments in anguish.  I’d try desperately to find the frog’s hidden lair and extricate it from my vehicle, but most days I had no choice but to drive to my destination with a death-grip on the steering wheel, just waiting for that frog to pounce.  This horror show went on for years.  There I was, a seemingly normal person, an A-student who sang alto in the church choir, driving around town bargaining with a frog.  First, I’d threaten the frog within an inch of its life and dare it to show its nauseating face.  Then I’d beg and plead with the frog to stay hidden and leave me alone.  Every sharp turn or bump in the road filled me with the fear that I would inadvertently dislodge the frog from its hiding place and send it sailing through the air to land on my forehead or plop in my lap, which would undoubtedly cause my untimely death in the ensuing fiery crash, leaving the frog unharmed.

They say desperate times call for desperate measures, so eventually I had to leave home just to escape the plague of frogs.  Actually, that’s not true.  I left home to attend law school but, fortunately, no matter where I’ve lived since I left home, I have never had a problem with frogs.  Apparently, city frogs are not nearly as plentiful or aggressive as their kin out in the country, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Me and my siblings today. From the left: Will, me, Michelle, Melinda, Melissa, and Melanie.

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So You Want to Be an Olympian Sunday, Aug 12 2012

Last week, my 10 year-old step-son Matthew and I were discussing my life’s journey and how, with God’s help, some determination, and a lot of hard work (and a dash of luck), I was able to go from being a farm girl who lived down a washboard dirt road in rural Bradentucky to an attorney in metropolitan Orlando.  I told him about the field trip I took to the county courthouse when I was 8 years old and how it sparked my interest in the law, how I got my first job as a high-school part-timer at my local prosecutor’s office, how I put myself through college and law school, and how I returned to my home town for a short time to work as a prosecutor before taking the leap into a federal clerkship and the law firm practice that followed.  My intent in telling Matthew this story was to encourage him to follow his dreams.  I then asked Matthew what he wants to be when he grows up, and that’s when our conversation took a more serious turn.  “I am going to be an Olympian,” Matthew declared matter-of-factly.  My response was something like, “No, seriously, what do you want to be?”  Thus began a heated conversation between me — the killjoy, Debbie Downer, step-monster — and my sweet, naive step-son.

You see, I’m a dreamer but I’m also a realist.  Yes, I wanted to be a lawyer when I grew up, which seemed like a nearly impossible feat on its own considering no one in my family had ever gone to college, much less graduate school.  I didn’t insist, however, that I would go to Harvard Law School, graduate first in my class, and work in the White House.  I explained to Matthew the long odds of ever becoming an Olympian and how the great majority of athletes do not make the Olympic team, despite immense personal sacrifice and singular devotion to their chosen sport.  The more I tried to explain to Matthew the statistical improbability of becoming an Olympian and the need to have a more realistic aspirational goal (such as a collegiate athlete who competes in regional or national track competitions), the more discouraged and defiant he became.   “I am going to be an Olympic track star and everyone knows it and believes it, except you!”

Now, at this point in my story, you are probably thinking one of two things.  If you are like me, you’re thinking, “Better to let the boy down easy so he won’t set himself up for inevitable failure.” But, if you are of a different mind, you are probably thinking, “Anything is possible. You don’t know the future.  Who are you to dash a young boy’s dream?”

All of this got me thinking.  I did some research on the odds of a high-school student becoming a track and field Olympian and the odds are something like 1 in 9,000 according to one article I read. 1 in 9,000!  That might as well be one in a gazillion as far as I’m concerned.  Still, I get where Matthew’s head is at.  I really do.  In addition to wanting to be a lawyer when I grew up, I also wanted to be a French interpreter to the United Nations and study at the Sorbonne.  As an adult, my ultimate dream is to be a published author and see my book on the New York Times Bestsellers List, but I know the odds are 999 to 1 against it.   That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop writing or stop dreaming of seeing my book on a library shelf, but I’m not going to stake my self-worth on something largely outside of my control.

So, what should we do?  Should we encourage a child’s dream to become a famous rock star or professional athlete?   Or, should we explain to a child the challenges he will face and suggest that he aspire to a more likely, less lofty alternative in his field of interest?   I don’t know what the answer is, but my conversation with Matthew has definitely given me food for thought.  In my defense, my heart was in the right place.  I hope I did not undermine my good intentions by being too pragmatic.  The harsh reality is that everyone’s dreams do not come true.  If they did, I would know a whole lot of veterinarians and marine biologists and a busload of astronauts and Hollywood stars.  I don’t know a single one.  But maybe, just maybe, one day my step-son will be an Olympian.

Matthew leading the way in track.

Madison after completing her first race.

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Guardian Angel Thursday, Aug 9 2012

One of the most enduring memories I have of my beloved Granny Griffin, other than playing Yahtzee in her kitchen while devouring her heavenly banana pudding, is the collection of religious décor she had scattered throughout her humble 1950s home in Samoset, Florida.    Among other things, Granny had a painting of an elderly woman and man with heads bowed giving thanks for their daily bread , a rendering of Jesus, a plaster sculpture of praying hands, and a large tapestry of DaVinci’s “The Last Supper” covering the wall behind Granny and Papa’s dueling gold recliners.

My favorite relic of Granny’s, though, was a shiny foil reproduction of Lindberg’s painting “Heilige Schutzengel” (Guardian Angel), which hung in her living room.  Nearly every time I went to Granny’s house to visit, I would study that foil angel and the blurry outline of the two young children crossing a perilous wooden bridge over a tempest sea.  Unfortunately, when I was 14, I lost my dear Granny.  After her death, Papa gave the Guardian Angel picture to my cousin Angie as a keepsake.  As the years went by, I would sometimes see variations of the Guardian Angel in people’s homes and churches and, when I did, my mind always turned to Granny and the devotion she had for God, for me, and for her family.

Granny’s foil reproduction, compliments of Angela Griffin Smith.

 Last year, after a month of dating, Michael invited me and my young daughter over to his home for the first time.  We were still in the discovery phase of our nascent relationship and unsure of what the future would hold, both of us scarred from previous failed relationships and both of us single parents to grade school children.  Michael  took me from room to room to show me his home and pointed out the various renovations he had made.  When we reached the living room, I stopped in my tracks.  There was Granny’s angel, in all her resplendent glory, still guarding over the children and guiding their every step.   “I can’t believe you have that painting, Michael,” I said.   He explained that his mother had given him the Guardian Angel at his son’s christening.

God only knows how many reproductions have been made of the Guardian Angel.  It has been around for decades, and a Google search yields dozens of links where you can read about the painting or purchase your own copy.  The image undoubtedly hangs in thousands of churches, pre-schools, and homes across the U.S. and around the world.  But, to me, the Guardian Angel holds special meaning.  When I saw her hanging there in Michael’s living room, I couldn’t help but consider it a sign from above that Michael was the man I was supposed to marry.  After all, what are angels if not messengers from God, and who was Granny if not an angel?

Now, Michael and I are married, and the Guardian Angel hangs above my daughter’s bed.  Every time I see it, I still think of my wonderful Granny and thank her for the message and for continuing to watch over me.

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50 Shades of Brown Thursday, Aug 2 2012

50 Shades of Brown.

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