 One of my favorite rom-coms from the early 1990s is a little-known film called “Prelude to a Kiss,” starring a luminous Meg Ryan at her quirkiest and a young, handsome Alec Baldwin before he developed a reputation as a narcissistic asshole.
It’s basically a body-swapping fantasy, in which Rita (Ryan) gets a kiss from an elderly stranger at her wedding at the precise moment they each wish they were old/young. Hijinks and hilarity ensue as Rita’s soul in the old dude’s body spends most of the movie trying to convince her new husband, Peter (Baldwin), that it’s really her under all that saggy skin and ear hair. When Rita and the old man finally switch back to their own bodies at the end, he says, “Can I give you two a piece of advice? Floss.”
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 Billboards are a big deal in my life. And I’m not talking about ones you might pass along the interstate, like: “Honk if You Love Jesus, Text if You Want to Meet Him” or “Hot Naked Girls, Next Exit.”
My billboards are allegorical, but they always come to me as crystal clear signs from the universe. They basically demand I take certain actions, or not take them, as the case may be. For example, I was presented with a mile-high, neon billboard that told me without the slightest flicker of doubt that my marriage was over. I heeded the sign and never looked back. On some occasions (though just as impactful), a billboard appears as simply a quiet reminder that I am on the right path, or that I should be grateful for all my blessings. This week, I saw several of them in Technicolor. First, Mork returned to Orson. I am not normally affected by a celebrity’s death, but in the case of the brilliantly funny Robin Williams, my heart broke. It was a chilling reminder that if such a gentle, sweet soul could find himself in an emotional chasm so deep he couldn’t see a way out, it can happen to anyone.  I was raised in a branch of Christianity that, in my perception, was very foreboding. In it, God and the church were bullies who regularly threatened to take my lunch money if I didn’t do what they said.
I was a good girl as a kid mainly because I was terrified to be bad. I was taught that, if I lied, cheated, stole, sassed my mom or coveted money and fame, I would burn in hell while a menacing red devil fanned the flames on my ass. And don’t get me started on the crushing guilt that came with any minor bad acts. Oy. From as far back as I can remember, my family went to church every Sunday and participated in all its extracurricular activities. I was in youth group, went to church camp in the summer and attended a private Christian school from first through sixth grade. I believed in every word of the Bible and did not question any of its more preposterous notions. I remember actually being concerned about the second coming and some of the scarier shit written in the Book of Revelation.  Since he was born in October 2012, I have made a concerted effort to visit with my sweet little (honorary) nephew, Raylan, at least a few times a month. (OK, I go over there to see his parents, too. His mom is my best friend, Whitney.)
During my last visit, Whitney and I were talking about Raylan’s many emerging, unique traits — what makes him giggle like a madman, what foods he loves, and which of his toys and blankets he favors. It’s wonderful to live vicariously through this new little family, because God knows I am done having babies myself. Talking about baby stuff got me to thinking about my son, Ethan’s, favorites back in the day. He’s 18 now, so most of his playthings are packed away in our basement for safekeeping, except for the few he has kept in random drawers in his room.  Today, I know how damn lucky I am to be happy, joyous and free. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t acknowledge my gratitude for life, the universe and everything in some small way.
I owe my sustained bliss to the tools for living I adopted as a direct result of the ravages alcoholism has wreaked on me and many of my loved ones during the past couple of decades. I was introduced to those tools because of someone else’s problem drinking, then in my 30s, developed a problem of my own that quickly reached critical mass. I am so grateful that I already had a foundation of recovery and knew exactly where to go for help. This Wednesday, Nov. 20, it will be four years since I had my last drink. Four years free of hangovers. Four years out of the abyss and into the sunshine. Four years of gifts that just keep on givin’.  I was part of the rapt audience in Freedom Hall at the Kentucky State Fair yesterday, all of whom paid good money to listen to a certain Southern family sit up on stage and tell a few funny stories over about an hour and a half.
Yep, I am one of thousands of obsessed fans of the hit reality show, Duck Dynasty, and I am not ashamed to admit it. QUACK! A friend turned me onto it last year, and I quickly became enamored of the Robertson family. I have not laughed that hard at a TV show since the Cosby kids were on NBC on Thursday nights in the 1980s. If I loved this silly show before I saw Willie, Korie, Miss Kay and Si Robertson live and in person, now I adore ‘em even more. As they each addressed the enthusiastic crowd, it was evident that not a one of them puts on a pretense or a “character” for the show. They are who they are. What you see is what you get. How friggin’ refreshing. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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