Grace Kelly By Mika

Dave has always had a lot of girl friends. Not "girl friends" girl friends but girls who are just friends girl friends. Thirty-seven of them to be exact and he hates it.
He is the one they all call and tell him about the terrible men they're dating, and how come they can't find a nice guy like him! Whaa WHaa WHAA! It gets to the point that he wants to scream at them that he is right there for the dating, taking or marrying if any one of them will have him!
In his heart he knows what they really want. If they truly wanted a nice guy it would have been him. If they had really wanted a sensitive guy it would have been him. But no they all want the bad boys. The ones that treat them like disposable Tupperware. Good for one use or maybe leftovers but as soon as you lose the lid...you throw it away.
Dave has heard the line "you-are-such-a-great-guy-and-i-really-like-you-but-i- don't-feel-that-way-about-you-but-let's-stay-friends" so many times that he hears it in his sleep. He thinks to himself sometimes that the next girl he meets that he's even a little bit interested in he will treat like crap and maybe then she will stay and he won't be alone anymore... but he never does.
Because deep down Dave believes there is some nice girl out there who really does want a nice guy and not just a shoulder to cry on when some other guy treats her bad. A girl who looks at the bad boys and sees them for the users they are and not the fixer-uppers of the great man they could be if the right girl could just love them enough. Some nice girl that will want to be more than just his friend.
Dave and Grace met at the bakery on a lazy Sunday. They got there at the same time and he held the door for her. She smiled her thanks and they stood in line together. the place was popular and crowded. They exchanged polite chit-chat about the weather, how great this bakery is and numerous other little details while surreptitiously checking each others ring fingers for that telling band. Each smiling wider when discovering the other appears to be free.
Grace orders a banana nut muffin and a light toffee mocha and waits to the side for it be filled while Dave order his croissant and a Turkish blend tall black coffee. Both pay and shuffle about looking for a place to sit. Grace asks if he would like to sit with her and holds her breath for his answer. Dave smiles and suggests they get out of the crush and take their morning pastries to the nearby park. They spend the whole day together and fall in love over green grass and warm danish.
They make plans to meet up again tomorrow, both walking away on air and a little dazed at the good fortune that has finally found them. Dave pulls out his phone to call Grace, even though they have only separated not an hour ago, to see that she has already tried to call him! He returns her call and they talk on the phone for six more hours.
By 2:00 AM Dave knows he has found the one. They're both getting a little loopy so laughing a sweet goodbye with promises to see each other in less than five hours they hang up. Right before Dave falls into a blissfully dream of a nice girl named Grace he deletes thirty-seven useless contacts from his cell phone directory. #behindthemusic

Retribution Red

“Well, I’m ready to start the living room this week,” Tessa announced. Her husband, William, murmured something from behind his New York Times.

Tessa quietly continued, “I’d like your input on the color. I have some samples.”

“Tessa, Tesssss. . . a, how many times do I have to tell you, I really don’t care what color you paint the living room. I can’t understand why you haven’t employed an interior decorator to deal with all this—or, at the very least, hired a professional painter.”

“Oh, but I do love to paint, and I do a good job if I say so myself. Here, here are some color samples.”

William threw each sample on the floor as he read its label, his voice full of ridicule, “Sky Blue, Sea Foam, Buttercup, Nearly Beige, Touch of Taupe, Soft White, Tawny Tan, Daylight Blush, Gentle White, Winter’s Day, Subtle Sage, Sublime Sunrise . . . . Good grief, Tessa, just paint the blasted room.”

“It would mean a lot to me if you took some interest in these projects, Dear.”

“Enough!” William bellowed.

“Please William, could we just sit down together for a few minutes and . . . .”

William got up from his recliner and stormed out of the room.

Two days later, Tessa smiled mischievously as she popped off the lid of the fresh can of paint, stirred it briskly, and dipped her brush in the quart of Pulsing Red.

Ms Bowaite’s Monologue

Well, let me tell you, it was a sign from Heaven. That’s right, a sign sent to me from above. Sunday the sermon was all about service, and the message made my whole body tingle. But that’s not all; the next day, that Heaven-sent guidance was underscored for me when I was doing my regular Bible study. I close my eyes and open the Bible, then I put my finger down on the page, and that’s where I start reading. Well, what do you know! My finger hit on Revelations 2:19. I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy patience . . . .So that clinched it. I was being called to go forth and serve!

I immediately thought about our food bank. I could go there, maybe hand out cans to the poor or organize the inventory or something. So I got on the phone. Right away! You can’t keep Heaven waiting, after all. I talked to Shirley on the phone. She was a pleasant young woman and very eager for my help—another confirmation of this Divine calling. But when she said she needed help the most on Wednesday afternoons, my heart sank; that’s my manicure day; it has been for years. But I rose to the occasion and said I’d be there at 1:00 sharp and work until 4:00 every Wednesday.

So, I had to call my manicurist, Delores. That was hard; Delores is very particular. I carefully explained why I would need to see her on a different day from now on. I told her about my calling. She didn’t seem that interested but said I could come on Thursday mornings at 9:30. Nine-thirty she said! Nine-thirty in the morning! But what could I do but graciously accept her willingness to work me into her busy schedule?

I showed up at the food bank on Wednesday; I even got there a little early. Shirley is a bit plain and her hair was unkempt that day, but she greeted me very warmly, I must say. I asked her how I should address her; she looked puzzled at first, but then replied,”Oh, Shirley is fine. “

“And you?” she asked.

“Ms Bowaite,” I replied in my most cordial tone.

The place was depressing: just a counter, a few old, mismatched chairs and a big warehouse-type room with shelves and bins, not a thought to interior design or feng shui. No wonder the people who shuffled in for food during my shift looked so despondent. I couldn’t imagine why someone didn’t fix the place up or, better yet, fine a more suitable building.

Oh, and speaking of the patrons, I have to admit that I was shocked to see men come in who had not shaved in days and who (please excuse my frankness) had probably not showered in days either. And there were women, very young women, who dragged two or three small children in with them. For heaven’s sake, do women these days not know about morals, or at least birth control? (Oh, I do hope I am not being offensive by being so blunt as I relate my story to you). I have to add that I was also surprised to see fat women come to a food bank! They obviously have plenty of food. Don’t even get me started telling you about the quivering flesh as they raised their arms -- and the tank tops that showcased them! But, of course, Judge not.

Anyway, my first task was to put new cans onto shelves. There was a makeshift organizational system: green beans here, peaches there. Later, a load of potatoes came in. They were straight from some farm and were as dirty as you can imagine. Shirley asked if I would start washing them. I told her I would be happy to until 4:00. Someone dug up some rubber gloves for me. They looked like they had been worn by countless other helpers. I didn’t know which was worse, putting my hands into heaven-only-knows-what gloves or washing the filthy potatoes without gloves. I opted for the gloves and sighed with relief that I’d be seeing Delores tomorrow. After all this manual labor, hopefully she would not berate me for my obvious lack of attention to my nails.

So then I was shown where I could wash the potatoes and where the drying racks for them were. You can’t imagine the dirt that rolled off as I carefully washed each potato. Things were going along pretty well, I guess, until about 3:30, then disaster struck: I picked up a stinking, putrid, disgusting rotting potato out of the burlap bag. Oh the smell! I nearly (excuse my language) threw up! Trying to sound relatively calm, I called Shirley over and told her about my terrible discovery. Shirley wrinkled her nose ever so slightly and told me there are often some rotten potatoes in with the others. (She was implying there may be more! Can you imagine?) She calmly showed me a garbage bin with a plastic liner and told me that’s where the bad ones go. Well, at that point, I looked at the clock and was so relieved to see it was finally 3:50. I could start getting ready to go. Saved from the stench of the potatoes!

I was exhausted from the hours of hard work. Ah, but three whole hours of service! As I was leaving, Shirley thanked me for my help and said she’d see me again next week. But already I was trying to work up the courage to ask Delores if I could have back my Wednesday afternoons with her. I’m sure she’ll be surly about my wanting to change back again, but Wednesday afternoons work so well for me, and I hate the smell of rotting potatoes

The Legacy

Once lost, it is lost forever! That was my father’s unrelenting mantra. “Michael,” he’d say solemnly, “one must always be honest; integrity is the cornerstone of civilization. Remember, if you lose someone’s trust or respect, it is lost forever.”

My first memory of hearing the expression happened when I was six. As I went into the house for dinner, my father saw that I had been crying. “What is it, son?” he asked kindly.

“I was playing marbles with Jeff, and he lied to me, I sobbed. “He said if I won two games, he’d give me his orange cat’s eye, but he didn’t, Dad; he lied. He lied!

My father gently put his arm on my trembling shoulder. “Could there be a misunderstanding, Michael?” he asked gently.

“No, Dad, he just said he changed his mind and that he’d never give his favorite marble to anyone.”

I could feel my Dad tense, and his voice sounded firm and angry. “You can never trust Jeff again! He has proven himself to be dishonest and once that trust is lost, it is lost forever!”

When I was ten, our Pastor taught a powerful sermon on forgiveness. He sharply thumped the pulpit with his fist; every head rose from slumber, and everyone listened attentively. Then Pastor Mike got quiet, and we all leaned forward, straining to hear his message. By the time the sermon was over, I think all of us in the Congregation were eager to forgive our neighbor and anyone else we happened upon.

My Dad did not attend Church with us, so that afternoon I told him about the sermon. He seemed a little annoyed and said that, yes, it’s o-k to forgive some things, but if someone proves themselves to be untrustworthy, that’s that! Period! Once trust is lost, it is lost forever. He said that if I always remembered that, I’d save myself a lot of grief down the road. Even at ten, I could recognize that Dad’s advice was totally opposite from Pastor Mike’s sermon. This discrepancy puzzled me and was a source of worry for quite a while. Nevertheless, because of my deep love and admiration for Dad, his position on the subject eventually eclipsed Pastor Mike’s inspiring sermon.

Years later, when I was a Junior in High School, I worked with my Dad in his auto repair shop. This gave me the opportunity to witness many instances of his integrity. One time, for example, he fired a mechanic named Henry because he had fixed a woman’s brakes when there really wasn’t anything wrong with them. When I looked puzzled at Dad, he simply stated, “I can’t trust him any longer, son. He’s lost my trust, and once lost, it is lost forever.” Dad’s business did very well because people knew they could trust Dad when it came to car repairs and fairness.

Dad and I shared a close bond. I loved and appreciated Mom, too, but I shared so many experiences with Dad that we came to rely on each other and treasure our time together. Dad was always supportive of me as I explored new hobbies and tried out a variety of sports. I had started thinking about college and was considering what I should major in. Dad’s main input was, of course, “I’ll support you in any decision; just remember to focus on integrity in whatever you do. Remember, if people lose their trust in you, once it’s lost, it’s lost forever.”

Dad kept his shop open late on Wednesdays for people who couldn’t come in during regular hours. He’d take both a sack lunch and a sack dinner. When he came though the door at 8:30 on Wednesday nights, he practically fell into bed. One Wednesday, Mom had made Dad’s favorite cinnamon rolls so I decided to take him some before closing. When I arrived, there was only one car in the lot besides his. I walked in the side door and saw the light on in Dad’s glass-enclosed office. He obviously didn’t see me as I watched him, intertwined and disheveled, with Bonnie Jean, our neighbor from down the street. They were kissing . . . hard . . . deep . . . heavy. . . .

I had trusted and respected my Dad completely, but at that moment I walked away from him and never truly connected with him again. Dad had done a thorough job teaching me about trust: Once lost, it is lost forever.

Challenge: Behind the Music

When listening to music, I will often find myself trying to figure out the story that inspired the song. I thought this would make a fun challenge. Pick a song and write a story that you feel captures it. Make the title of the song (with artist) as the title, so we can listen to the song that inspired you! #challenges #behindthemusic

Jason's tongue stuck out in fierce concentration. As head engineer of the death star it was his job to make sure everything fit the way it should. He glanced down at his digital Spongebob watch to see it was almost four pm.

The general would be in to check on his calibrations, give him a snack and home work reminders soon. Just a few more hours and the massive gray menacer of worlds would be ready for destruction. Too bad there was a spelling test tomorrow, otherwise he might have been able to talk the general into a deadline extension. Who needed words like “ daffodil” or “bouquet” anyway? Now thermonuclear reactor was a word worth knowing and spelling!

Jason shook a length of sandy hair that had drifted into his eyes out of the way. The Spongebob on his wrist giggled an alarm and right on cue the general gave a tap on his door and walked in.

“ Hey, that's looking real good Jason!” She brushes the floppy hair further up his forehead and kisses the crown of his head too fast for him to duck it. Jason shrugs like its no big deal but inside he is glowing from the praise.

“ Five more minutes and then its homework time.” Jason sucks his lower lip in and tries not to whine. “Ah come on mom.”

“ You know the rules.” she says not budging and inch.

“Please please pleeeze.” he chants in vain already knowing the answer.

The general gives a sigh and bends ever so slightly.

“ If you can do all ten of the spelling words three times each with no mistakes you can have more lego time.”

Jason sighs gustily. World domination would have to wait for another day. He set the tray of gray, white and black pieces aside knowing when he was beat. He hoped that next time there wouldn't be any parts left over.

Casualties

Alyssa stood quietly beside her father in the bustling Minneapolis airport watching her mother in the distance as she prepared to run the security gauntlet. “Bye-bye, Laura,” six year old Alyssa called to her mother as loudly as she dared. Her mother paused for a moment and blew her daughter a kiss before continuing to remove her red Giuseppe Zanotti heels for the conveyor bin. The airport monitor indicated that her flight would depart right on schedule, and Laura’s racing thoughts were already transporting her ahead in time to her dream-come-true arrival in Paris.

David and Laura’s divorce wrapped up three weeks earlier. It had not been a messy divorce, the kind where the injured parties ensnare friends and strangers and hold them captive while they catalog their grievances over and over. The couple was too civilized for tasteless revelations of their private life. Nor was their divorce a particularly friendly one, the kind where the couple remains so amiable that everyone wonders just what had gone wrong. David and Laura had never even really been friends and shared the notion that friendships are for school children.

Their parting had been more of a drifting away from one another, and neither David nor Laura had even considered reaching for a lifeline; instead, they were buoyed along as the current of discontent gently took them toward different shores. David was searching for a wife who would compliment and complement him. He longed for a woman who would idolize him and make him her top priority, while at the same time maintaining her charm and intelligence. When she entered a social gathering, there would be a break in the conversational din. And everyone would know that she was his.

Laura’s dreams were of becoming a shrewd and impressive business woman in the world of fashion. Shortly before the divorce was final, she was offered a position with Adeline Andre’ Haute Couture. She accepted the offer with no consideration of family ties or responsibilities.

Now, as David and Alyssa reached the car in the airport parking garage, Alyssa was squeezing back the tears that had started as she first watched her mother disappear in the lines of fellow travelers. Her Father noticed her contorted face and patted her arm with a dismissive, “There, there,” and ushered her into the car.

Alyssa Monique Burke had come to her parents unexpectedly; but they liked her. She was beautiful and intelligent and gave them credibility as a family: “And do you have any children?”

“An adorable little girl,” they would reply proudly.

As they begin driving, Alyssa looked at her Father and asked hesitantly, “David, can I go to a pet store to buy something nice for Treater?”

“May I, Alyssa. May I.”

“Yes, Sir. May I go to the pet store to buy a toy for Treater?”

David scoffed, “A toy for a dog? Nonsense. You know I have to drop you off at home with Mrs. Robinson and get back to the office. I’ll be working long hours to get ready for the New Your conference. Don’t you remember?”

“Maybe Mrs. Robinson could take me tomorrow when she picks me up after school.”

“I don’t pay Mrs. Robinson to chauffer you around.

“Yes, Sir,” Alyssa whispered. Then silence prevailed.

As soon as the divorce had been finalized, it occurred to them that a decision must be made as to where Alyssa would grow up: Paris or Minneapolis? They had delayed this decision because it seemed inconsequential at the time. They concluded that Alyssa should make the decision as to which parent she would live with. “Either way is fine,” they told her magnanimously. After two weeks of Alyssa’s “fretting,” their patience wore thin. “We really must have a decision,” they insisted. Laura would be leaving in a week

Alyssa had finally decided she would go with her mother. Sometimes her mother brushed her hair for her and read a bedtime story now and then. And sometimes her mother smiled at her and held her hand for a moment. However, the day before she announced her decision, her father brought a petite, quiet dog to his house. Alyssa immediately named him Treater, and there was love at first sight between the two. And thus, the week before her mother was to leave, Alyssa was the happiest she had ever been. Treater nestled with her, welcomed her home, played with her and lavished appreciation and affection. They both thrived. Alyssa could not bear to leave Treater and told her parents she would be staying with her father.

When Alyssa and her Father got home from the airport, she immediately ran for Treater before Mrs. Robinson even had time to remind her to take off her shoes. Her heartache at losing her mother was tempered with knowing she finally had an affectionate ally.

David looked down at the cheerful little dog. My allergies have flared up again the past few days, he thought. It must be that mutt. Obviously it would have to be returned tomorrow.