IT TOTALLY IS.  Both plots are based essentially around keeping an empire from falling apart.  On Downton, it’s maintaining the Abbey and the Grantham fortune.  On FNL, it’s maintaining the Panthers/Lions.  But let’s look at a breakdown of characters, because that’s really where the money is.  Oh yeah, this has spoilers, so if you’re not caught up and you keep reading, I don’t know how to help you.

Coach Taylor // Robert Crawley, Lord Grantham – Heads of the family, heads of the estate/football dynasty, these guys are ALMOST perfect.  And while Eric Taylor would never kiss a stupid maid (TWICE!) while Tammy was dying of the Spanish flu, he did have his moments of non-marital imperfection.  They both have a couched temper, but are basically men of honor with ironclad virtues.  EXCEPT THAT ONE TIME LORD GRANTHAM MADE OUT WITH THE STUPID MAID WHILE HIS WIFE WAS DYING OF THE SPANISH FLU.

Tami Taylor // Violet, Dowager Countess – Both these sassy ladies are never afraid to speak their minds (OBVIOUSLY), and can always come back with just the perfect remark.  And the Dowager would absolutely rock some aviators if she hadn’t been born before COLUMBUS SAILED AWAY.  Actually the Dowager is to hats & pimp canes what Tami Taylor is to aviators, so…done.  The Dowager also takes a special interest in several less-fortunate cast members (i.e.: trying to keep Molesley and William out of the war, forcing the vicar’s hand to marry Daisy & William), just like Tami did with Epic.  They are both the glue that holds their respective families together, and while some might think that Cora is Tami’s counterpart, I just don’t think she’s got the cojones that Tami does (although they WERE both late-in-life mothers).  You’re welcome to disagree in the comments, because I love a good fight about fictional characters.

Julie Taylor // Lady Mary Crawley – It is a KNOWN fact that Julie Taylor is the absolute worst.  She’s spoiled, she doesn’t deserve to have the parents that she has, and she CERTAINLY doesn’t deserve Matt Saracen.  Wipe that disgusted look off your face, Julie.  Look around you!  Your life is wonderful!  Ugh, you’re such a brat.  Mary Crawley is the same.  Spoiled, doesn’t deserve her parents, and most assuredly doesn’t deserve Matthew Crawley (although DEAR LORD, they are beautiful together).  Furthermore, Mary had an illicit affair with Mr. Pamuk, and Julie had an affair with Creepy Married Teacher Guy.  Sadly, Mr. Pamuk was basically the most gorgeous person ever to walk on this planet, and he died.  We only wish Creepy Married Teacher Guy met the same fate.  And let’s be honest, Julie Taylor is a poor man’s Mary Crawley.  She is no where near capable of the coldness that Mary can muster with a look.  Probably because she’s the absolute worst.

Jason Street // John Bates – Sure, there’s the obvious: they are both handicapped.  But Street is Coach’s QB1, and Bates is Lord Grantham’s number one valet, which is kind of the same thing.  Both had to “go away” to “deal” with a “lady,” but we’re assuming that Street didn’t inadvertently cause his baby mama to commit suicide (or something else) by consuming rat poison.

Matt Saracen // Matthew Crawley – One, names are the same.  DO NOT MISS IT.  Two, both were thrust into the spotlight, which they never asked for.  Example: Matt’s face when Coach tells him to get into the game after Street has been hit vs. Matthew’s face when he reads the letter from Lord Grantham, informing him that he is the new heir.  SAME FACE.  Three, both in love with girls we love to despise.  WHY do they love these girls?  What is there to love about Julie if you aren’t related to her?  Because you saw her dancing that one time?  And no one even related to Mary likes her much.  Four, both look AMAZING in a suit.  You can’t make that up, guys.  It is what it is.

Buddy Garrity // Isobel Crawley – Have you ever seen such meddling?  If there was a Rippen Boosters, don’t you know Cousin Isobel would be heading that mess up?  And trying to figure out how to get a Jumbotron in the stadium?  Showing off her deceased husband’s championship ring?  And Lord knows if Buddy Garrity had his way, Downton would be a training facility for the East Dillon Lions, where Lady Edith was the jock strap washer.

Tim Riggins // Lady Sybil Crawley – They are both EARTH-SHATTERINGLY hot.  LOOK at these two people.  Are you kidding?  Riggins and Sybil want to do things their way.  They want to VOTE!  They want to wear PANTS!  They want to skip practice and DRINK BEER!  They want to marry the CHAUFFER.  They want to save BILLY FROM PRISON.  And you can’t stop them, because they are Crawggins, and they will not be moved. If you try, they will destroy you with their hotness.

Landry // Lady Edith Crawley – Poor Landry.  Poor Edith.  Overlooked Landry/Edith.  They each had their one moment in the sun (Landry made out/went out with TYRA [that's a joke, right?] and Lady Edith went on car rides with the Fat, Old Guy Who Really Likes His Car), but alas, it wasn’t meant to be.  For Landry, being the murderer of Tyra’s attacker proved to drive them apart, while Edith’s letter to the Turkish embassy implored Mary to casually destroy her impending engagement the The Fat, Old Guy Who Really Likes His Car.  AND, Landry had a crush on that one girl, who turned out to be a lesbian, which is almost the same as Edith having a crush on that one guy who didn’t have a face and may or may not have been her cousin.  Also, Crucifictorious is to Landry as driving the car and working as a farm hand is to Edith: cries for attention from the overlooked ones.

Tyra // O’Brien – Ladies of “candor” with a heart of gold.  They both also have AMAZING hair.  Have you seen Tyra’s hair?  It’s unreal.  So healthy.  And have you seen O’Brien’s sideburns?  SO HEALTHY.

Becky // Daisy – It’s another known fact that Becky was one of the worst FNL characters.  Do you even remember Becky?  Do you hear a dull hum in your ears when I say her name?  That’s the sound of her whining you to death.  Becky is perfect scullery maid material (isn’t being in pageants basically the same thing as being a scullery maid?), which makes her Daisy’s counterpart.  Because, how much can you whine about something?  I initially liked Daisy, and then the whining began.  So SAD that you made the last of William’s life BEARABLE as he was DYING, you unpatriotic waste of kitchen space.

Lyla Garrity // Lavinia Swire – Lavinia is alright.  She’s ok.  But were you sad to see her die?  No…probably NOT.  And were you SAD when Lyla went to college or whatever?  No.  Both are daddy’s girls (Lavinia’s mom died & Lyla sided with her dad during her parents divorce).  But, the real peg is Lavinia’s statement after she caught Mary and Matthew kissing during the Spanish Flu outbreak (why is everyone kissing while people are dying?), I don’t want to be a nuisance.  Well you are.  So go to Vanderbilt or die of Spanish Flu (INCREDIBLY UNEXPECTEDLY), why don’t you?  Because Matthew needs to go buy his own piece of Texas and Riggins is in love with Mary, and you’re just IN THE WAY.

BONUS PAIRINGS:

Smash // Thomas – Arrogant and both prone to illegal activities (steroids and black market rations).

Ethel’s Baby // Billy & Mindy’s Kid – They’re just babies, so…

Jess // Anna – Sweet, beautiful, and willing to support their man no matter if he killed his first wife or happens to have a massive anger problem, which could potentially kick them off the team/put them in jail for first degree murder.  Both equally severe moral dilemmas.

Luke Cafferty // William – Grew up on farms, went into the military, both loved girls that didn’t love them back as much as they wanted.  Although Luke lacks William’s strange, though not entirely off-putting Joker smile.

Mindy Riggins // Mrs. Patmore – Mindy: redeemed by Billy Riggins from the Landing Strip.  Mrs. Patmore: redeemed from a life of blindness by Lord Grantham.

FNL Theme Song // Mrs. Hughes - Just like an old friend, Mr. WG Snuffy Walden’s Friday Night Lights theme music welcomes us to Dillon at the beginning of each episode. It’s a theme you don’t skip through. Nor would you skip through Downton Abbey under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes welcomes us to Downton but don’t mess with her. She can see and hear the happenings around the entire estate so don’t tread on her. But if you happen to get pregnant by a new character (i.e. Major Bryant or Luke Cafferty) both Mrs Hughes and the FNL Theme will comfort you and transition you to setting up a meeting with Tami Taylor or Major Bryant’s emotionally-stunted father.

Mr. Pamuk // Tyra’s Attacker – Died for lust.  Read your BIBLE, kids.  People die if they have pre-marital sex (or attempt to).

VooDoo // Mrs. Bates - Just coming in and stirring up trouble.

Gracie Bell // Molesley – FIVEHEADS.

Our thesis is lock tight.  Who are we missing?  Who did we get wrong?  Don’t even think about it being Cora/Tami/Violet.  I’m right and I won’t be moved.

At any point from about 1989 to this moment, if you would have asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have told you: “I want to be a writer.”

Not even an author.  I didn’t even want to be published.  Just wanted to sit in a room with a typewriter or a massive computer circa 1990 and write.  This is an introverted extrovert’s dream.  Or at least this introverted extrovert’s dream.

Last week, Relevant published a blog post by Jeff Goins.  You can read it here (but can you wait, just real quick?), but the gist is that people have dreams and that’s all fine and well, but they need muscle behind them.  I think he alluded to Eminem at one point, so you understand where I’m going.  You have one life.  Live it.  Don’t be scared of what you’ve been commissioned to do.  Or, as Uncle Frederich says: “Here is the world.  Beautiful and terrible things will happen.  Don’t be afraid.”  He says it better than me.  Go figure.

I was so glad that Jeff Goins pushed submit on his blog entry, because he forced me to write this post.  Back in July, I became part of a two person team that started writing a book.

A fiction book.

Commence your groaning now.

I’ll wait.

Ok.  Now, it’s my turn.  Megan (whom I have been friends with for about two years and probably eternity on some plane)  and I have been working on this book (with the wonderful Amy as our illustrator general), and we’re going to publish it ourselves next October (10/11/12).  In order to publish it ourselves, in addition to be completely crazy, we have to market it ourselves, we have to generate interest in it ourselves, and of course, we had to write it ourselves.  The fun part was writing, and now apparently, the hard work begins.

We had a meeting with a wise man who knows infinitely more about any of this than we do, and he implored us to have a ‘thing’.  A gimmick, if you will.  That makes it sound cheap, but don’t worry, because what I’m about to tell you will drown out the cheap and just make me sound generally certifiable.

Megan and I have assumed pen names (can you hear 7th grade Erin jumping for joy?), and basically, we have assumed the online personalities of (wait for it) two eighty year-old women who pen letters to each other and have decided to write a novel to stay out of the assisted living home.

Can you imagine what this is like for me?  To just broadcast my crazy all over the internet?  It’s worse than when my parents grounded me from the Valentine’s Dance.  It’s just so much worse.

Here’s where you come in.  Today starts our social media push to “generate interest”.  Do you know how ridiculous I feel talking to you about this?  It cannot be measured.  So here’s what I’m asking.  If this kind of thing interests you (i.e.: fiction, hopefully what amounts to a good story, people doing stuff on their own, or just because we’re friends…), we would love you til the day we died if you’d follow us on Twitter (@wyattandwynn) or ‘like’ us on Facebook (facebook.com/wyattandwynn).  And if you have friends who are interested in grown women turning into some version of Grey Gardens/Golden Girls on display via the internet, we’d love it if you’d tell them about the book and about our alternate personalities: Wyatt & Wynn.

We’re going to be doing a Kickstarter campaign (because, dag yo, self-publishing be expensive), and we’re going to have a newsletter where we’ll be doing some fun surprises before the book releases (in 400 years).  So if that is your bag, we’d love to see your social media-ed face on either of our internet homes.  If not, we have great respect for that, as there are a lot of places on the internet I do not care to tread (i.e.: CosPlay forums, anything having to do with community gardening, and MySpace).  I’m going to commit to NOT badgering you on this blog about the book, although it’s only my lifelong dream, so please don’t be annoyed if I mention from time to time.  I mean, I guess you can be, but don’t expect me to sympathize with you.

I’m kidding.  I’m a total people pleaser.  There will be much sympathy.

There are people who have inspired me just in general in my life, who I’ve probably never taken the time to thank.  These people are my dear friends and family, who were (at least feigning like they were) excited when I told them about this project, listened to me beat it to death, but truly just encouraged me, either with specific words or actions, or just being themselves and living their dreams out so other people who are frightened can see that it can, in fact, be done.  There are people who are helping us in ways we can’t repay (literally, because we don’t have the money), but we hope one day we can.  It’s amazing the group of people who I call friends, because you wouldn’t believe how absolutely talented they are, and how generous they are with their giftings.  There is so much more I can (and WILL) say about this, but I hope that for now, a simple and very heartfelt ‘thanks’ is heard from me, to you.

So there it is.  We’re writing a book.  It’s the first of seven.  It’s called The Last Beholder.  It’s written by two old broads named Wyatt & Wynn.  We couldn’t (and can’t) do it without a group of wonderful people who we love and love us.  There is so much gratefulness in my heart, I don’t even understand how to process it.  We’re actually really excited about it, despite my nervousness/reluctance to tell people of its existence.  We think the story is great, and I hope you do too.

If you need me, I’ll be throwing up somewhere.  Thanks, internet, for letting me spill my guts.

On Twitter: @wyattandwynn
On Facebook: facebook.com/wyattandwynn
The book site: thelastbeholder.com
The author site: wyattandwynn.com

I think this is great.  I think art certainly has a place in the church, in spirituality, and I think artists are uniquely gifted from God to bring truths about in ways that other people cannot see.  I’m all about the resurgence of art into Christian culture.

And as someone who finds gainful employment in the field of Christian art/creative programming/etc. I’m really about it.  And I’m for sure into being the best artist you can be.  You do good work, you do the best you can do with what you’ve been given, and you put it out there for people to see.

What is unsettling about this resurgence  in church culture is the idea that there is “good” art and “bad” art and that the good art is what is used to bring about change and the bad art is something the good artists laugh at, cringe at, and generally disown because they don’t think it’s good.

This is unsettling on several levels.  One, it’s a pretty basic tenet of Christianity that we are supposed to love our brothers and sisters.  As an artist, any kind of artist that does any kind of art, probably the most hateful thing you could do to someone is openly mock something they’ve created.  Can you imagine working on a project, on a paper, on a painting, on a play for weeks/months/years, only to have the final product mocked by a fellow believer who happened to go to design school?  I am just as guilty of this as the next person, smirking at a church skit or laughing at a worship band because they aren’t GOOD, and thinking that makes them stupid.

Which brings me to two, just because you don’t LIKE a piece of art that someone has created, you think it’s bad, and therefore ineffective.  Are we so self-absorbed to believe that only art that is well-done and well-produced is art that can speak to people?  Surely not.  We see in the Bible that God used people who were utter messes.  This is kindergarten.  This is bush league information that we all know.  Art is subjective, and not everyone on the planet has your finely honed palate of what “real” creativity is.  Not everyone is moved by what you are moved by.  Yes: some things are cheesy.  Yes: some things aren’t shiny and produced well.  But that does not mean that the Lord cannot use something that you see as bad to bring about good, to affect change, to zero in on someone’s heart.

Three, “if you’re doing art for the sake of being the best, you’ve missed the point,” says my boss.  Do I think that we should all do the best work we can, because the best work we can do is honoring to God?  Absolutely.  But my best is not your best, and sometimes people have passions that they lack talent for.  And that is ok.  It’s more than ok.  It’s actually braver than what you’re doing, with your slick Final Cut Pro and your After Effects.  I think back to when I first moved to Birmingham, and my uncle visited me over a weekend.  We went to the church I had been attending, a church known for its high production value.  When I asked him what he thought of the service, his only reply was: “Wow!  That was really well-produced!”  If the only thing people remember when they leave our “creative worship sessions” is how cool the video was or the neat way the speaker used his iPad during his talk: we’ve missed the mark by about a thousand miles.  And I think we’ll have to answer to that.

But mainly what I think what we’ll have to answer for is just generally being snobby.

Good art is art that makes you feel something.  Therefore my idea of good art cannot line up perfectly with anyone else’s idea.  I love William Blake, but some people think he’s crazy, or his art is boring.  That’s how I feel about Picasso.  I don’t feel anything from it.  It’s not bad art.  It’s just not the art for me.  The modern, youthful church would hate on the genre of Christian romance novels in a heartbeat, but some people are genuinely moved by them.  They experience something with God when they read them.  Who are you and I to belittle that?  Same thing with a lot of Christian drama.  The experience is different for different people.

Art that does not come from the heart, THAT is bad art.  Art that is false and forced, that’s bad art.  But when my two and half year old daughter brings home a paper covered in stickers FOR ME, that rings of truth.  She loves me, so she made this for me.  Is it something that everyone would ohh and ahh over?  No.  It’s Dora stickers on a piece of construction paper.  It’s not good.  But it’s GOOD.

I think the worst part about this whole trend is the line it draws.  I’m right, you’re wrong.  My art is good, yours is bad.  You don’t deserve to talk because what you say isn’t put in the “right” package.  It’s so condescending.  It’s also just plain rude.  It’s also hateful, which is about the opposite of what we’re asked to do as believers.

If we’re all doing the very best we can, if we’re all believing with our whole hearts that God has given us a vision, and we’re supposed to execute it, to make something that means something, shouldn’t that be enough?  If people want to be brave and put something out there that they’ve labored over, why would we trash that effort?  Why wouldn’t we build them up, encourage them, and see the beauty of what God has placed in their heart?  Is this world so precious that we have to stake our claims to be the best, even if it’s for the Lord?  Or is there room for people who aren’t the best, but still have a passion?

I’m actually asking.

This past Sunday, my great aunt Billye Dean passed away.  If you follow me on Twitter, you probably saw my mention of her final instructions:

This is all very true, I can’t imagine that she would have thought memorializing someone on the Internet, much less Twitter, would have been much to brag about.  But, all I can do is offer my humble gift, via the only way anyone will get to read about her life, as she wrote her own obituary, and this is what it said:

She’s funny like that.

I honestly don’t know a lot about my Aunt Billye, or as we called her later in life, Aunt Baby.  She was extremely private about her personal life.  When my cousin, who was adopted from China, could not say “Billye,” she resorted to “Baby,” and we just all decided that would work fine.  She was born August 23, 1938 to Winifred Holland Dean and Ina Rose Buske Dean in Stanford, Texas.  She was baby sister to my grandmother, Dorothy.  I know from my grandmother that they lived through the Depression, saw electricity come into farms around Stanford, and moved to Carlsbad, New Mexico, then Hobbs, New Mexico,where she grew up.  Holland Dean died unexpectedly of a brain anuerysm when he was thirty, and Ina Rose raised Dorothy and Billye by herself for awhile.  A strong, single woman begat two strong and independent daughters.  She started out at Exxon as a secretary and rose the ranks to become a leader.  She was one of the Mary Tyler Moores, and every woman who works today and doesn’t get an eyebrow raise for being “pert” should thank her and the other women who made it ok, who made it the norm.

The one thing I loved about Aunt Billye, especially when I was little, was her hair.  She had this gorgeous bright red hair, and an incredible personality.  She never married (I once heard a rumor that she was engaged, but I never asked her about it), and she was an absolute blast to be around.  She would send us fabulous presents, her old clothes to use as dress-up clothes, hats, jewelry.  She was so incredibly thoughtful; there was a hard exterior, but the hardness came from loyalty and an absolute iron-clad strength of character.  Inside, a marshmallow.

As a person, I am afraid of death.  I know, as a believer, I should not be.  I know finality on earth is not finality in other realms, but I suffer from separation anxiety.  When my aunt was diagnosed with lung cancer, she told us she had a year to live.  I took that year for granted, knowing that she would be around, I could tell her how much I loved her, how much it meant to me that she loved me, that she remembered my birthday, that she sent me articles she thought I would find interesting.  I think she knew this, but I am ashamed to say I waited too long to tell her, to make my voice say the words.  She would have hated me telling her all that, but no one dislikes hearing they are loved, and they are appreciated for their efforts in loving others.  She was here only three more months, and now she is gone.

I don’t remember the last conversation I had with my aunt.  We emailed frequently, little things here and there.  I’m ashamed to tell you that I was afraid.  Afraid of talking to her for the last time, afraid she might sound tired or sick, afraid she wouldn’t be brave, that she was in pain.  I am not well acquainted with death, and  I didn’t want to admit that this lovely person, who was loved by so many people, would be gone off the face of the earth forever.

You may notice that her own self-written obituary mentioned that if you wanted to honor her life, you could make a donation to the Houston Food Bank.  Perhaps this is my most favorite thing about her.  As far back as I can remember, when Billye moved to Houston, she volunteered on holidays at the Houston Food Bank.  She served food, talked with people, and helped clean up, like clockwork, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving.

The last time I saw my Aunt was at my wedding, five and a half years ago.  She became too sick to travel, and I never went out to see her.  We talked often, but it just absolutely destroys me that I didn’t go out there.  She never got to see Holland in person, although the internet was helpful.

When she was diagnosed with cancer, I wrote her a letter.  I flip-flopped back and forth on whether to send it, her being adverse to all things schmaltzy and sentimental, and the week before she died, I asked my mother if I should.  She told me she thought it would be nice, and so I resolved to do so, although it sat on our cabinet, waiting for a stamp, waiting for me to get my act together and send it already.

It’s still there.

When you’re alive, you never think you will die.  Maybe you hold it out as a far away notion that might one day happen, but you never think, it’s going to be me.  The idea of others, the people that you love, dying, is a terror, hiding in the deep cracks of your heart, always around you.  I can’t get through life without my husband, my daughter, my mother, my father, my brother, my grandparents, my Aunt Billye.  The world seems not as rich when these are taken out, and we sit on the floor in our kitchen and we look at the letter we never sent and the only response one can have is happening as the soup bubbles over and your daughter tells you it will be ok.  Part of you is bound up in the people that make your life, make you who you are.  I am a better person because Billye Dean loved me, cared for me, sent me birthday cards, told me I was important, that I could be beautiful and strong and ME, and don’t ever apologize for being just as much you as you can be.  But, as we all know, life goes on.  As Aunt Billye said, “Life is for the living.”  It’s cliche (but you know my feelings on cliches), but we don’t know the gift we have in life.  And we can only be grateful that people come into our lives and care for us.  It’s just the most pure thing we can know about this side of heaven, for someone to care for you, and to love you, just because they can.

Today is your second birthday.

It’s really cliche to talk about how amazing it is that two years have already passed since you got here, how time flies, etc.  But, as Chuck Klosterman (someone who is probably irrelevant by the time you’re reading this) says: “Important things are inevitably cliche, but no one wants to admit that.”  So, I’ll proceed with all the cliches.

One of the things that surprises me about being a mother is how much I genuinely enjoy spending time with you.  You are hilarious, and now that you are talking more (as opposed to just grunting and pointing at things and then moving them around five hundred times), your dad and I are seeing so much of your sense of humor.  The other day, you told me a fine story about how there were purple horses in our yard, and how desperately you wanted to ride one.  You are a singer, and the singing that I most love is when you are playing by yourself, and you are just really going to town on Twinkle, Twinkle or the ABCs.  Giving it your all.  It’s just wonderful to listen to.  You are so bossy, and I love that about you.  I love that you know what you want and you aren’t afraid to try and get it.  I know that will fade as you grow older, but your confidence (in most things) is so fun to watch right now.

Speaking of confidence, you have little confidence in the funniest things.  You are kind of coming around to puppies, but if they get to close, you still say (with your Hand of Sass out in front of you): “No, no puppy dog!  Go way, puppy dog!”  And we can tell you’re scared, but you fight through it and you make sure that dog stays the heck away from you.  Which is hilarious, because it’s a puppy and all it wants to do is lick your little face.  But, you’re not to be reasoned with in this matter.

As you’ve gotten older, discipline has become more and more of a necessity.  You are (how shall we say this?) strong-willed, and time-outs are a regular thing at the Moon house.  You sit so dejected on your time-out rug, sometimes you cry.  But when it’s over, you’re learning to say ‘sorry,’ and you just bounce back like nothing ever happened.

You like to announce things.  Some of your favorite announcements are:
“It’s hot!”
“Mommy, it’s hot!”
“Daddy TISS!”
“Mommy TISS!”
“Drink of water!”
“Oh my word!”
“Watch Elmo’s World!”
“Dirty diaper!”
“I pooted!”

We’re all very proud of these announcements, especially the last couple.  We like them best in large, public places with lots of people.

You love to read, and I know this is a specific gift from God to me.  It’s hysterical that you want to read space books and 4th grade textbooks on the Moon.  You point at things and say, “What’s this?” and we answer, “That’s a black hole,” and you say, “black hooooole.”  You still get excited when you see the Moon, and since it’s summer right now, you don’t see him often.  But when you do, it’s a party.

Watching you grow cracks my heart into a million pieces every day.  I love that you run everywhere, I love that you play practical jokes on us, I love that you smush your face into the sides of your crib when you sleep at night.  There’s no way you’re comfortable, right?

I absolutely, positively cannot believe that you are two years old.  It’s incredible to me that you were a tiny baby two years ago, mad as hell about getting a bath (some things never change), and completely brand new to the entire world.  You were in the baby warmer, just clutching your dad’s finger, and we were just so incredibly in love.  We were less in love when you refused to sleep that night (jokes!), but I’ll never forget the feeling of being in awe of life in just that way.  It hasn’t ever gone away, that feeling, and I wonder if it ever will.

We’re so grateful for you.  So grateful to have been here from the beginning, to know what you sounded like when you cried for the first time.  And to know what it sounds like when you yell about your dirty diaper in the middle of Publix.  It’s all a big, happy mess; we love it both equally.

When I was in high school, I read a poem by a man named e.e. cummings.  Because I was in high school, and I thought I knew everything, I assumed this poem was about two people in love, that wanted to get married.  But now, when I read it, although I am not a poem-scholar, I think Mr. cummings must have been a parent, because he captured so perfectly how your dad and I feel about you and who you are.  Here’s just the first few lines, because that’s really the kicker for me.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

- e.e. cummings

If I could give you one piece of two year old advice, I’d say stay two for as long as you can.  I want you to be a child for a little bit longer than you probably want to, but you have the rest of your life to be an adult, so just play with bubbles and make up stories about purple horses in the yard for as long as you want.  I’m ok with it.

It’s so much fun to be your mommy, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for you.  I hope it’s full of popsicles, Owly the Owl, yogurt, space books, and trips to the zoo.

I love you,

Mommy

One of my favorite writers once said, “Important things are inevitably cliche, but no one wants to admit that.”  What I’m about to write will probably be really cliche.  Probably.  But that doesn’t make it untrue.

You’re really the best dad a girl could ask for.  I honestly had no idea until I was probably in junior high that crappy dads existed outside of the movies.  Since then, I’ve known lots of people, amazing people, who had terrible fathers (or no father at all), and I’m just so very grateful to have you.  I will never ever take it for granted.  At least, I’ll try not to.

One thing that I love about you is that you come to everything.  There’s not one major moment in my life that you didn’t show up for.  There’s probably not one minor moment in my life that you weren’t there for, also.  You used to sit on the bleachers and just watch tennis practice.  It wasn’t like you were a crazy sports dad or anything, I think you just enjoyed hanging out.  You came, you watched, and you left.  You even came to stuff that I’m almost positive you were bored at.  One act plays, musicals, whatever.  But you came.  And you never let on that you’d rather have jabbed your eyes out than see Frenship High School perform a 40 minute version of Angels in America.  So, thanks for that.

I have a couple of specific memories I’ve been thinking about all day.  The first is when I was probably in third grade, maybe a little older.  We were at Six Flags with a couple of other families.  The moms took the littler kids and went to a kiddie area, and I got to go with you and all the older kids to ride the big rides.  I was scared out of my mind, but I for sure wasn’t going to be caught dead in the stupid kiddie area at Six Flags.  We got in line for some terrifyingly named roller coaster, and all my cool began to melt away.  I started to panic as only an overdramatic third grade girl can.  There were tears.  Copious amounts of snot.  Unintelligable weep-speaking.  You were trying to reason with me, but it’s like I’ve always said: You can’t talk sense to crazy.  We were getting closer and closer to the front of the line and you kneeled down to me.  You looked me right in the eyes and this is how it went down:
Dad: Ok.  Look, the reason you came along with us is because you’re a big kid.  Right?
Me (snot flying, quavering voice): Y-y-y-yes.
Dad: Well, here’s the deal.  You don’t have to go on this roller coaster.  You don’t at all.  If you’re scared, we can go down to the bottom and wait for everyone else and it won’t be a big deal.  But I think you should go.  Because it’s going to be a lot of fun and once you finished, you’ll wish you had stayed here and gone down.  Plus, I’ll be there.  And we’ll sit together and we’ll go down together.  Ok?
Me: Ok.
Dad: So which one do you want to do?
Me: I don’t want to ride it.

In that moment, I know that you were disappointed and probably really annoyed.  But you didn’t show it at all.  You just said ok, gave me a hug, and we walked back down, past the huge line that we had waited at least half an hour in already.  We watched your friends and their kids come down and you didn’t make me feel like an idiot at all.  You didn’t make me go back to the kiddie area.  We just went to the next ride, and for the rest of the day, I rode every single one of them with you.

The other memory is, admittedly, super sappy, but again, that doesn’t negate it.  I’ll never in my whole entire life forget watching you and mom hold Holland, see Holland for the first time.  I can’t imagine what it’s like to see someone that you’ve literally known from the second they’ve been breathing air produce another branch on your family tree, but I saw it all over your faces that early morning.  It bowled me over and I’ll just plain never forget it.

I’ll never be able to adequately express just how grateful I am for you and for mom.  I’m so incredibly blessed to have been born into your family.  When you pull out all your geneaology stuff, I just marvel at how the Lord works, how he made this person marry this person and they had a baby that eventually married this person and all that mixed up and we all wound up together.  I remember fishing with you and Papa at the Fishing Hole at the Ranch.  I remember “helping” you work in the yard and being upset because you and Drew got to take your shirts off, and you told me I couldn’t, that mom said it wasn’t “ladylike.”  The list could go on and on, but we both know it all, so I won’t.

I love you dad.  I love you so much for empowering me to the point that I didn’t know that “men making women feel bad about themselves” was a thing that happened in the world.  I love you for teaching me about the Gospel, for forcing us to do family devotionals, for living it all out with your life.  I love you for teaching me what to look for in a spouse and for investing so mightily in that person.  Thanks for never telling me that girls don’t play baseball.  Thanks for letting us have dogs.  Thanks for remembering a goofy bet we made when I was in 8th grade, and paying up at the altar at my wedding. Thanks for introducing me to The Outlaw Josey Wales.  Thank you for being faithful to mom, and to our family.

Thanks for being a man, as there aren’t that many around anymore.  I’m grateful to know you.

Happy Father’s Day,
Elizabeth

My mom has taught me a lot.  And I’m also indebted to many people that I consider mothers; women who have been influential in my life.  My grandmothers, for starters, are two of the most incredible women I know.  I’ve also had the great fortune of having women in my life that know their way around life and have been willing to throw me bone.  For this, I am eternally grateful.

Below is a list of things my mother taught me, 28 of them for the twenty-eight years I’ve known her.  We could all learn a thing or two from our moms.

1. Don’t be afraid to work hard.
My mother is one of the hardest workers I know.  This is the woman who got her masters degree while working a full-time job when her children were in junior high and high school.  My mother has always got her hands in something, always looking for the next project, always wanting to learn more and experience more.

2. “One night for boys, one night for girls.”
My mom had this rule when I started dating.  You could only see a guy one night of the weekend; the other night was for your girlfriends.  I thought this was “totally unfair,” but it’s a smart rule.  You don’t lose your relationship with your friends when you start dating that guy that you’ll break up with over the summer anyway.

3. Look nice, but don’t let fashion run your life.
Mom always looks kicking, but she’s no slave to fashion.

4. The thank you note is an art form.
My mother was militant about thank you cards when I was growing up.  I’m so thankful for having this burned into me.

5. Life isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.
When my mother’s father passed away, we were all in the fancy car, riding back from the gravesite.  It was pouring down rain, we were all tired, emotionally and physically.  We had been greeting people at the church all morning, eating a lovely dinner prepared by some very kind women, then burying my Papa Bill.  The rain was beating loudly on the car roof as we all piled in, dripping wet.  My uncle, who had just sung a lovely song at the funeral, leaned forward to my grandmother and asked, “Did you like the hymn?”  She answered him, “No sweetie, I had the chicken.”  My grandmother mishearing “ham” in “hymn” in that particular moment is still one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me.  I’ll never forget my mother, sopping wet, yet completely graceful, missing her father, but belly laughing along.

6. Take a risk.
I remember my mother auditioned for a community play when I was in junior high.  She got the lead and was just incredible.  My mother is not a trained actress, but she killed it.

7. Sing in the car.
Everytime.

8. Cultivate imagination.
I probably played “pretend” for longer than a lot of my friends, but my mom never told me to grow up or get my head out of the clouds.

9. Don’t brush off a compliment.
Just say “thank you” and smile.

10. When you think something nice about someone, say it to their face.  When you think something unkind, keep it to yourself.

11. Kiss your husband in front of your kids.

12. You’re probably not going to marry the first guy you date.

13. The guy you end up marrying will probably not make a great first impression on you.

14.  Put it back where it goes.

15. Don’t be a crazy feminist.
Let men open doors for you.  Let the guy kill the roach.  But know how to change a flat tire.

16. Listen.  Before you say anything.

17. Cynicism is not worthy of your time.

18. Stick with it.
My parents never let me quit anything, save one time.  I was allowed to drop out of Girl Scouts, only to find that the week after I left, my troop went to McDonald’s and got free french fries.  Lesson learned: don’t quit anything.

19. Take pictures.  Get them printed.  Save everything with meaning.

20.  If  someone’s taking a picture, go chin down, eyes up.  If it’s full body, bend a knee.

21. By the time a woman realizes her mother was right, she usually has a daughter who thinks she’s wrong.

22. In your dad’s eyes, until you marry the guy, he’s not in the picture.
No guy will ever be more important than your dad (until you get married), and you’ll never have a better friend than your mom.

23. Just because something is hard, doesn’t mean you can just get out of it.
Examples: algebra II, breaking up with boys, yard work, telling the truth.

24. Don’t be afraid to be the only girl in the room.
My mom works with a ton of men.  I also happen to work with a ton of men.  Tips: Don’t cry in front of all of them.  Cry in front of them separately.  Don’t be afraid to say good ideas.  Don’t be afraid to say bad ones, too.

25. Do it yourself.  Until you can’t.  Then call the professionals.

26. Know your forks, sit down for dinner, and don’t put your elbows on the table.
Fork and left have the same amount of letters.

27. What seems like a good idea at 18 is usually already a bad one by 21.

28. Always be reading.

Happy Mother’s Day to the kindest, wisest lady I know.

The Great Santini: I’ve always thought it was interesting when people give themselves nicknames.  My husband’s cousin refer to their grandfather as “Caesar,” which I can’t think one bestows on themselves lightly.  Duvall’s character, Lt. Col. Bull Meechum (self-styled as The Great Santini) is as learned in the school of ass-ery as one can manage and still interact with others on a base level.  Duvall was nominated for an Academy Award for this movie, and rightly so.  He’s barely recognizable as an incredibly complex military man who basically sucks as a human.  The tagline for The Great Santini is: The bravest thing he’d ever do was let his family love him.  A little heavy-handed, but at least you know where you’re going for the next couple of hours.  There’s a particularly awful scene where his son, Ben (played by Michael O’Keefe, who was in an episode of the third season of the West Wing), beats his old man in a game of backyard hoops, and Bull just…cannot cope with it.  And acts out like a child.  And it’s so unbelievably heartbreaking to watch.  As in, my stomach was literally filled with bile, I could not deal with it.  I think I watched it through my fingers.  Either way, it was a great movie, full of layers and family dynamics for days.  I give it an A.

True Confessions: This is another Black Dahlia movie, before it was cool, I guess.  True Confessions is really not that great of a movie, but it’s just magical to watch De Niro and Duvall share the screen.  De Niro plays a priest and brother to Duvall’s detective.  It’s a long, drawn out murder mystery, which I can take or leave, but again, watching these two play together is like what I imagine it would be like to have Anthony Bourdain and Martha Stewart cook a meal together: minds melt, worlds collide, and the Sun explodes due to awesomeness.  I give True Confessions a B+, simply based on the cast.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten.  More later.

Apocalypse Now: I’m actually STILL watching this movie.  It’s incredibly hard to swallow.  I’ve made my way through Mr. Duvall’s appearance and it is delightful, in a really sadistic way.  He plays Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore, who basically obiliterates a Vietnamese village in order to surf.  He is, of course, great.  I just can’t get through the rest of the movie.  Yet.  Martin Sheen is TINY, and a bay-bay.  I can’t watch anything Martin Sheen does and NOT think of him as President Jed Bartlett, so it’s weird.  I want him to quote something in Latin, but Capt. Willard doesn’t do that.  Anyway, I think Apocalypse Now is probably a great movie, but I can’t get through it to tell.  Yet.

Tender Mercies: Sweet MOTHER.  This is a great movie.  I re-watched Tender Mercies for the project, and it is just flat-dab amazing.  It MIGHT be my favorite Robert Duvall movie thus far, other than Lonesome Dove (obviously).  Interestingly enough, Tender Mercies was written by Horton Foote, who also wrote the screenplay for Robert Duvall’s first major film, To Kill a Mockingbird (as Boo Radley).  Mr. Duvall also sings in this movie, and I just can’t deny something like that.  I give Tender Mercies an A.  It’s a great, great film with a small cast, and a beautiful story.  Redemption is always a theme in movies that Robert Duvall is in, and this is no exception.

Lonesome Dove: I re-watched Lonesome Dove, and what can you really say about this mini-series?  It’s perfect?  That will work.  Tommy Lee Jones and Mr. Duvall play off one another perfectly; they ARE Call and McCrae.  But, although I am EXTREMELY biased, it’s Mr. Duvall that makes that movie what it is.  In a recent issue of Esquire, he says: “When I finished Lonesome Dove, I said to myself, now I can retire.  I’ve done something.  Let the English play Hamlet.  I’ll play Augustus McCrae.”  And I think that sums it up.  The character is so American, so iconic, and it’s the perfect person to play the perfect role.  I can only think of a couple of other times when that has happened, and I think they are as follows:
Al Pacino as Michael Corleone
James Earl Jones as the Voice of Darth Vader
Richard Harris as Albus Dumbledore
Vivian Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara
Lonesome Dove gets an A+.  It always will.

Days of Thunder: I actually JUST finished watching this one.  Not my favorite, but that’s ok.  I read that Robert Duvall did Days of Thunder because he finds Nascar fascinating.  Andy shared this quote with me: “I did the soccer movie (Kicking and Screaming) because I wanted to do a movie for children. I did Days of Thunder because I wanted to work with Tom Cruise and I think Nascar is exciting. The critics didn’t like either of them. But I did this other movie the critics didn’t like either. It was called The Godfather. I don’t listen to critics.”  That, friends, is why this guy is the shiz and the best actor in business today.  He DOES NOT CARE what anyone else thinks: he wants to make the movies he wants to make.  I give Days of Thunder a B-, mostly because I wasn’t that interested in the subject matter.  But a good performance nonetheless.

Something to Talk About: It’s a real testament to my appreciate for Mr. Duvall that I would suffer through a Julia Roberts movie.  I cannot handle her.  I do not despise her quite like Kinsley does, but she annoys me to high heaven.  In any case, I was not a fan of this movie.  Robert Duvall plays a Julia Roberts dad, and he’s kind of a jerk.  Which conflicts me, because I think it’s funny when he’s mean to Julia, but I still don’t like seeing him in that role.  I know I’m not really supposed to be commenting on his character, and I’m supposed to be talking about whether or not I liked the movie, but I can’t.  Julia Roberts ruined this one for me.  As she usually does.  I give it a C.

Sling Blade: Mr. Duvall’s got a very small, but (sort of) charming cameo as Billy Bob’s dad.  This movie gave me the creeps, but I recognize a good performance when I see one.  B+

The Apostle: WHAT CAN BE SAID?  Maybe I take back Tender Mercies as my second favorite Duvall movie.  He also directed and wrote this one, and it’s just wonderful.  Again, redemption is a main theme, and it’s heavy throughout.  I think he actually had to finance the movie himself, after tons of studios turned him down, which speaks to his tenacity.  It’s an amazing movie, great direction, great character development, AND June Carter Cash is in it.  It’s one of my most highly recommended Duvall flicks, so watch it! It gets an A+.

A Family Thing: This is an absurd movie premise, but for some strange reason, it sort of works.  Robert Duvall’s character finds out that he’s black.  No, you read that right.  He finds out that his father is a terrible person who essentially raped a black woman (who then died during childbirth), and the woman RD has always thought of as his mother is really a sainted person who still married his father and took his illegitimate child as her own.  Which was easy, because he doesn’t really look black.  At all.  You’ve seen him.  Anyway, turns out he has a brother, James Earl Jones, and he travels to meet him and try  to get to know him.  It’s really sort of a great movie.  I know.  You think I’m crazy.  Maybe I am.  Billy Bob Thorton was one of the writers, and it’s got some zingers.  One of my favorites: “Don’t know why anyone would eat unsalted butter.  Just the same as eating Vaseline.”  Also: “Being happy is only having something to look forward to.”  It gets an A-, for ridiculous premise.  But really, sort of good.

Open Range: I have a love/hate relationship with Kevin Costner.  This movie moved into a little more into the hate, then back into the nuetral, then a little bit into the love.  I really liked this one.  Michael Gambon plays the villian in this one, and at the final gun battle, all I could see was Dumbledore emerging from Gambon’s subconscious and using his Patronus or something.  A little bit of IMDB trivia also put Mr. Costner in the black for me: he was originally set to be top-billed for this movie, but asked the studio to top-bill Mr. Duvall instead.  That’s classy.  And universe correcting.  Probably the best moment in this movie for me comes toward the end, just as the final gun battle is starting.  One impertinent lawless townie is sidling up to Costner’s character, and Kevin says:
“Are you the one who killed my friend?”
“That’s right.  I shot him.  And I enjoyed it too.”
Kevin Costner doesn’t hesitate; he just shoots the impertinent lawless townie in the forehead, point blank.  It’s just divine, clean-cut Western justice.  There’s also a funny little scene at the end where Charley (Costner) asks Boss (Duvall) what his real name is.  The answer is so bizarre I wouldn’t dare ruin it, but it’s just a nice little slice of comedy that I thoroughly enjoyed.  Open Range gets an A.  Highly recommended.

Crazy Heart: I would watch Jeff Bridges cut up cheese, to be real frank with you.  Even though Mr. Duvall has a small part, he just runs with it.  It’s just wonderful.  The only part of this movie I could not handle is Maggie Gyllenhaal.  No, thank you.  She’s an indie Julia Roberts, and I’m not buying it.  But Jeff Bridges is just unreal.  His singing is great, and his acting is relaxed and completely natural.  I really liked this one, but Ms. Gyllenhaal is in it a little too much, so it gets a B+.

That caps off my current progress.  Here are all the RD movies I’ve watched so far:
To Kill a Mockingbird (A)
The Godfather (A+)
The Godfather II (A++)
Apocalypse Now (A-)
Tender Mercies (A+)
The Natural (A)
Lonesome Dove (only the definitive movie of our time)
Days of Thunder (B-)
A Family Thing (A-)
Something to Talk About (kill me)
The Apostle (A+)
Sling Blade (A)
Open Range (A)
Four Christmases (Mr. Duvall is the BEST part of this movie.  That’s the truth.)
Crazy Heart (A)

Here are the ones that I’ve watched, but feel I need to watch again for the Project:
True Grit
The Network
John Q

And here is what I’ve still got left to watch:
Captain Newman, MD (with Tony Curtis and Gregory Peck!)
The Chase
The Detective (with Old Blue Eyes)
Bullitt
MASH
Lawman
THX 1138
The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid
Tomorrow (which looks really good, very excited about this one)
Joe Kidd (with Clint Eastwood)
Lady Ice
The Conversation (with FF Coppolla and John Cazale!)
Breakout
Killer Elite
The Seven Percent Solution (a Sherlock Holmes movie…)
The Eagle Has Landed
The Greatest: Muhummad Ali
The Betsy (with Laurence Olivier.  It was after this movie that Robert Duvall famously stated that he didn’t mean anything by it, but he was “better than Olivier.”)
The Great Santini
True Confessions (with DeNiro!)
The Stone Boy
The Lightship
Belizaire the Cajun
Tango, Our Dance (really interested in this one.  It’s not available on Netflix, so I’m trying to find it elsewhere.)
Colors
A Show of Force
The Handmaid’s Tale
Convicts (Another Horton Foote movie)
Ramblin’ Rose
Hearts of Darkness
Falling Down
Geronimo: An American Legend
The Paper
Scarlett Letter (with Gary Oldman!)
The Road
Get Low (really stoked about this one)
We Own the Night
Broken Trail
Lucky You
Thank You for Smoking
Kicking and Screaming
Secondhand Lions
Gods and Generals
Assassination Tango
A Shot at Glory
Gone in 60 Seconds
The 6th Day
Deep Impact
The Gingerbread Man
A Civil Action
Phenomenon

So I’ve got some work to do.  The goal for 2011 is to finish the Project.  Let’s do this.

All through elementary school, junior high, and high school, I was friends with this one girl, Jen.  I’ll be honest, what attracted me to Jen initially was purely physical: she had THE most amazingly long blonde hair I’d ever seen.  I don’t mean that in like a lez way.  I’m just saying, Jen’s (Jenni, then) hair was the envy of everyone at Oscar Hinger Elementary.  Jen was (is) the opposite of me: sweet, kind, compassionate, smart, beautiful on the inside and out, and soft-spoken to the general masses.  I LOVED HER.  We literally grew up together, we had the same teachers through elementary school, we did cheerleading in junior high together (well, I was the mascot…), we were doubles partners all through high school in tennis, as well as theatre.  I have more stories about Jen because we just spent so much time together.  There were a few other people that I loved as much as Jen, but no one for as long.

Like this one time, we had this club called the Kids Kare Klub.  Now, there are immediately two things that are wrong in this story.  One, if you know me, you know my incessant and unrelenting hatred of cutesy misspellings.  Maybe that hatred stems from this story, I don’t know.  Two, the Kids Kare Klub is abbreviated with 3K’s.  Clearly, we had not reached the point in American History where we learned the role of the Klansmen.  At least, I hope.  Either way, the Klub’s mission statement was something to the effect of, “We want to care about people.”  I don’t think we ever actually did anything (might have something to do with the big KKK on our stationery), but we met nonetheless.

Anyway, I (of course) had somehow muscled my way into being the President of the KKK.  I was usually the President of all our club endevaours, mostly because we took a “Which Baby-Sitter Club Member Are You?” quiz and I was Kristi (the bossy, tomboy, ugly one), and she was President of the BSC, therefore, I would be President for all eternity.  I know it’s hard to believe now, but I was an incredibly bossy child.  Jen was the Secretary (I believe), because of her excellent penmanship and likeness to Mary Anne (from the BSC).  I honestly do not remember the names or positions of anyone else involved, but I have ideas of who they might be.  Either way, there were lots of them.  DROVES, my mind recalls.

Being the President of something like the KKK is very difficult.  It’s lonely at the top, and no one understands all the hard decisions you have to make.  I don’t remember the exact sequence of events, but the KKK had had enough of me.  I had pushed them too hard.  I had forced them to kare too much.  And they were gonna make me pay.

I guess I had to go to the bathroom or something during recess (our meeting time), and so I left the klub in the kapable hands of Jen and whoever else was an officer.  When I got back, the mutinous forces had joined together to kreate a cheer for their leader.  I think the conversation went something like this:

Mutinous Force Member: Hey Erin.  We kame up with a kheer while you were gone.

Erin (sniveling): Oh.  That’s kute.

MFM: Kan we show it to you?

E (sighing overdramatically): Yes, yes.  Fine.  Let’s see it.

It seems to my young mind that every girl on the playground stops whatever they are doing to either watch or participate in this cheer.  There are rows upon rows of young, Girbaud-wearing almost teens lined up, facing me, waiting to drop the bomb on my sweet & (a little bossy) self.  The cheer went like this:

“Open up the barnyard, kick out the Erin!  We’re the girls from the Kids Kare Klub!  Turn on the radio and who do you hear?  Erin bossing everyone around…”

This story is, by far, one of my favorite childhood stories.  We’ve been telling it for years, and it’s gained epic proportions, sort of like when you try to explain how awesome LOST is to people who don’t watch it and you end up making a fool of yourself.

That’s how I feel right now.  I just thought you should know.