Mr. Incredible. Accepting Applications.

I am back in the dating scene. 

Trying to write the perfect portrait of myself that represents the Elastigirl in me. Looking through the online resumes of men who still take pictures in bathroom mirrors, shirtless, with their car, or of the last three fish they caught. Reading yet another profile about how they are looking for a woman who is just as comfortable in a cocktail dress as she is in jeans and a t-shirt. Oy! It seems they are all laid back, amazing at communication, want to open the door for me, surprise me with flowers, take me away for a spontaneous weekend trip, like to go out dancing or are just as happy to spend the night at home with little ol' me. The sugar is so thick my teeth ache.

Then I have to go through the replies asking for my personal email right away. Even better the replies from Beijing asking for my credit card number. So flattering. Would be more flattering if I had a credit card.

Basically teeny tiny needle...Ginormous haystack.

I am looking for my Bob Parr (A.K.A. Mr. Incredible).

I have decided that you, my friends, will be my best chance at finding Bob. You may already know Bob. You just needed me to let you know I'm looking. You know me. You know what what I have gone through over the past four years, how I came through it, what I value, what I am looking for, what I need, and what I can give to a relationship. You know my likes and dislikes. Like=ice cream. Dislike=dishonesty. Like=family and itty bitty babies. Dislike=addictions. More than anything many of you know what I deserve in a relationship. I'll borrow a few words from a Gooseberry regarding my next relationship... Your next relationship will build off of your experience with Wicked of being trustworthy and gentle and clear. AND I predict it will have more urgency and breathlessness.

That being said, the application process is open. All interested Bob Parr wannabe's may apply. Only serious inquiries will be considered. If you have any questions about the application process you know how to get a hold of me. 

I figure the more eyes I have in the search for Bob Parr the better my chances that someone might catch a glimpse of red spandex under his suit, jeans, lab coat, or uniform...I've always had a weak spot for firefighters. 

Coming Home

 

I have returned to Montreat, North Carolina. This was my home for four years. The four years immediately following high school. The four years when my parents moved from the only home I had known for fifteen years. Montreat became my anchor in many ways. 

This journey back has occurred for a couple of reasons and has been filled with memories. 

I am here for my 25th reunion. In 1988 a small crew of students were the first class to graduate with a four year degree after years of the school functioning as a junior college. There were only 24 of us. It is an experience I would never trade. 

I had a few trials while I was at Montreat. I discovered what was my weakness. I found my safety net. 

Now the school is looking at a merger to continue and expand. Alumni are in an uproar. I have found myself trying to fill the role of Activities Coordinator again. Trying to help all sides function together as a whole. Involve everyone. Self appointed. 

The other part of this journey brings in my parents. Mom and Dad were so happy when I chose Montreat. They were thrilled I went to any college. So as I sat in the Detroit airport last night waiting for my flight I had several impressions of my father. He traveled a lot when I was growing up. A Lot. One of my fondest memories was going to to airport to pick him up. This of course was when you could go to the gate to meet your party. I can recall the excitement of watching each person walk out of the door and seeing my dad. Standing with him at the baggage claim and looking for his bags and the extras he would have brought home. The trips to inspect the Cracker Jack plant was THE BEST. Always a box of just prizes. In the days of good prizes! 

I needed these sweet memory bubbles of my dad.

This morning I woke and went out to the screened porch. The first thing I see is a huge rhododendron. Mom. The south is my mom. It is her home. She was a poor southern belle. She fell in love with Montreat after I left North Carolina. We were never really able to share our mutual appreciation of all Montreat can provide for the soul. Today. She is here with me. I see and feel what she loved.

Here I am. Back to what was my first Home. These old, smaller, lush mountains feed my soul. The streams speak softly. They provide words of comfort and encourage me to listen closely with my head and my heart. 

This Home helps to guide me Home.