How to #KissAGinger, #365StrongStories 12

A couch in a basement.

Two couples. (Well, “couples” feels like a particularly weighty word since all four were seventh graders).

And two pieces of licorice.

It was the gross shoelace kind of licorice that you only eat because there’s no chocolate around. It’s the kind of “food” wise people avoid.

I was not wise. I was twelve. And I would take any pathway available to get to my first kiss - even a long red strand of gummy sugar.

Enough with childhood. Enough with the wondering about what it would be like. Enough with the fear that no one would ever pick me.

Mission accomplished. And the next day I called the kid’s best friend to deliver the “can you tell him I don’t want to go out with him anymore?” news. (Because that is what you did when you were twelve in 1991).

Did I mention that the whole reason we found ourselves on this basement couch was because we both had red hair? Apparently, “making a cute couple” was more important than actually liking a person. Granted, being freed of the the terror that I would die without being kissed was even more important than our friends’ idea of “cute.”

It’s #KissAGinger day, so I salute the young man on the other end of that strand of licorice. I do hope that the next ginger you kissed gave you a better time.

As Jonathan Swift wrote in In Gulliver's Travels:

It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity.

Indeed. But you have to get me tipsy before I’ll tell you the story of what it’s like when gingers meet over pints in Dublin, not candy on Cape Cod!

What My Grandmother Couldn't Teach Me in the Kitchen, #365StrongStories 11

One day, back when I was a college student, I entered the kitchen to find my grandmother looking at an uncooked turkey that sat on the counter.  She looked at me and asked, with that most beautiful twinkle in her eye, “Marisa, if you were to come home to this turkey, what would you do?” Without a trace of irony I replied, “I’d put it back in the fridge.”

Nanna’s laughter made it clear that this was not the sort of answer she was seeking.  She wanted to share a moment with her granddaughter, passing on culinary knowledge.

I was concerned that the family might get food poisoning if the bird stayed out too long.  It didn’t occur to me to be interested in cooking anything. Even spending time with Nanna was not enough to convince me that preparing a meal was more worthwhile than reading a book.

Thing have changed. Sorta.

Ok, so I’ve never actually been solely responsible for the cooking of a turkey, but I have roasted a few chickens in my time. And tonight we might have feasted on frozen pizza and mac n’ cheese, but they were served with a side of peas and mixed greens so no one is getting scurvy here.

I read precious few books before bedtime these days, so “I’m reading!” isn’t the excuse that keeps me out of the kitchen. Admittedly, however, it’s not unusual for me to hit the freezer when I’ve got a launch coming up.

The good news is I had a Nanna who’d love me anyway. And I have a husband and kids who do too.

What We Mean When We Say Motherhood Is "Incredible," #365StrongStories 10

“Moms, how come you never told us?” Back when I was high on whatever cocktail Mother Nature serves new mothers to enable us to survive the stress of being responsible for another human life, I wrote an open letter to the Baby Boomer moms.

Sweetly self righteous, I thanked them for teaching us to take on the world, but I took this generation of women to task for holding back an essential piece of information.

“How come?” I asked like some daft hen staggering about under the influence of yummy postpartum hormones.

“How come you never told us that motherhood was this incredible? You never mentioned the spell that was cast when you first looked into our infant eyes. You never described it as the greatest love story never told.”

The mommies who came before us didn’t get around to waxing poetic about every magic sparkle moment of motherhood because… motherhood.

Finally, I know that that word really means. Incredible is defined as “difficult or impossible to believe.”

All of the joy and rage and numbness and passion that get mixed into the mother-child bond… it really is incredible.

Yes, parenting is difficult and impossible to believe. I cannot fathom how I - and all the rest of the moms I know - can be a kind, smart, creative individual who practices any level of self control when forced to live with this kind of sleep deprivation and these draconian limits on personal and professional time.

And yes, to balance this all out and to show that I am mother that I purport to be on Facebook, the tremendous love I feel for these girls is incredible too. But tonight, the new mommy glow has long since worn off and just wish everyone would figure out to sleep through the night and wake up pleasantly in the morning.

The Lottery Myth, #365StrongStories 9

“Did you buy our tickets, my dear?” He kissed her temple as she leaned close to him. Just back from the marketplace, she had stopped to see her husband in his workshop. The crucible where he heated the sand to make his delicate glass bottles and globes burned hot, and she moved behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders while he worked. “I did. I chose all our lucky numbers.”

“I like it,” he said, still distracted by his work.

“Do you? I just want the whole thing to be over. No one can talk of anything else. The rich merchants are leaving the royal gatehouse with sacks full of chits. As if they needed anything more! And the poorest people, I hear, are not buying bread because they’re spending all their alms money on one single ticket.”

As he prepared the materials for a gold vase commissioned by one of those rich merchant’s wives, he murmured, “Ours is not to judge how people spend their money or do anything else. Haven’t you told me that before?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But I still don’t understand it. Why would the prince decide to share a portion of his fortune with just anyone? Is he looking for entertainment, watching the people stand in line and boasting about what their lives will be like when they live the life of a royal?”

“I do admit I prefer imagining a life of plenty to worrying over next month’s profits.”

“Me too, me too. I just keep wondering, do you get a portion of the man’s misfortunes as well when you go to collect your winnings?”

The Love Story that Came With the Frame, #365StrongStories 8

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“I have a surprise for you! See you at the pub at 9.”

My college roommate left me a voicemail before I arrived in New York City. It had been a few years since we’d seen each other. I’d been busy falling in love and had just gotten married. She’d been fully occupied with the wrong guy.

But when she walked in, I realized her whole story had changed.

A tall blond man - because that’s what he was, now - swept in and swirled me around. It had been ten years, but I knew my dear friend’s first love as soon as I heard his great, sweet laugh.

We caught up. We drank Guinness. I didn't know what it meant to see them together again, so I asked the question that I thought might reveal it all. “So, did you ever take the picture out of the frame?”

My youngest and I spending the afternoon with two little wheat-haired boys. During a brief moment of peace, I look at the collage with the wedding vows and the invitation for that 2009 ceremony. On the table beneath is a photograph taken in our freshman dorm.

I don’t have to take the picture out of the frame to know what’s written on the piece of paper tucked inside: “Remember, I will always love you.”

She had written the note in a moment of melancholy that 18 year-olds do so well. “Now, when he dumps me and starts going out with some other girl, he’ll feel totally guilty.”

Because there’s truth in the myth of true love and destiny, he never, ever took the picture out of the frame.