Remember those glasses I bought? They’re mostly for reading, but they’re also progressives so I can wear them all the time, if I like. Which I often do. My days are heavily sprinkled with bursts of reading and writing so it’s often easier to just leave them on.

Except there’s a problem. The glasses leave bright red indentations on either side of my nose.

Here, I’ll show you:

Oops. Out of focus. Let’s try again.

Getting closer. Hang on….

There we go! See it?

I wouldn’t mind the marks so much if they faded after five or ten minutes. But they don’t. Just one hour of wearing the glasses earns me a good two to three hours of violent red markings. Granted, this is peanuts in the grand scheme of things. I’m not in pain, nobody is loving me less for my spots, and I can see, for crying out loud.

But still.

I was fussing to my blind-as-a-bat husband about my nose spots and he said, “That’s weird. I’ve never gotten marks on my nose and I’ve worn glasses for years.” And his glasses are about an inch-thick and super heavy. What is up with this, people? Why do some people get marks and others don’t?

I feel like I have two options—either wear my glasses all the time, or don’t wear them at all—neither of which is acceptable. Is there a middle ground? Have any of you glasses-wearer people hit upon a solution?

(And please, don’t suggest “stop being vain” because that’s just not going to happen.)

(Another no-no: telling me to adjust my perspective. That’s just bad punnery. Don’t do it.)

This same time, years previous: the puppy post, the quotidian (7.8.13), zucchini skillet with tomatoes and feta, rain, and peanut butter cup ice cream.

Back when we were in the middle of Outside Mullingar, one of the other actors tossed me a script. Want to do this play with me?

I read the entire thing on a Sunday morning while the rest of the family was still in bed. A few pages in, I was crying so hard I had to set it aside for a few minutes so I could get control. Good grief, I thought. If I can’t read it without crying, how will I ever act it?

Jessica Dickey’s The Amish Project is a fictionalized account of the 2006 Nickel Mines shooting in which a local milkman entered an Amish school house and shot ten girls. The play was originally intended to be performed by one actor but has since been adapted for an ensemble. I play Carol, the wife of the shooter. (When the guy first mentioned that I do this play with him, I thought he meant the one-actor version and about blew my top. Put that on top of my then-current crazy and I would sail right over The Edge for sure.)

The play is about much more than the horror of the shooting. It’s about the underbelly of humanity, gut-wrenching suffering, and the power of forgiveness. No one is demonized, not even the shooter, and the result is a profoundly moving piece of art, raw and heartbreakingly beautiful.

The play opens a week from today and runs for one weekend. The house—a community center that’s being transformed into a black box theater—only seats about sixty people and fills quickly, or so I’ve been told. Last time they did a play at this location, they were turning people away fifteen minutes before curtain. Tickets are five dollars and reservations can be made here.

Note: for mature audiences due to disturbing content and some language.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.7.14).

The other day I came home to discover a box sitting on my computer. A piece of paper lay on top, a note scrawled in my older son’s horrific handwriting.

It read: 

What can I say. The boy gets me.

That writing group I started?

It was THE BEST THING I COULD HAVE DONE.

(Actually, I’m in two groups. There’s the main writing group that meets monthly, and then another smaller, side one—photographed above—a writing group spawn, of sorts, that meets weekly, just for the summer, and is more of a support team for this seminary-theater intern.)

The groups’ variety in writing style, content, and genre is tremendously invigorating, and the people are awesome: supportive, interesting, creative, funny, and smart. After each meeting, I am filled to the brim with creative juices and pumped to write. Success! 

The problem with having your writing desk next to your bed: the temptation to sleep instead of write occasionally wins out.

This same time, years previous: reflections from Kansas City, grilled flatbread, red raspberry lemon bars, simple creamy potato salad and French potato salad, and baked oatmeal.