I read a book last week.

Seriously–I did. Cover to cover. Including the prologuey-intro part. I had to lock myself in the bathroom to do it, but I read it.

No doubt you are asking yourself, what book could be so riveting that Ashley finally broke her longstanding record of not managing to read anything longer than SkippyJon Jones? Well, I’ll tell you, because I hate to keep you in unnecessary suspense.

The book is My Bangs Look Good…And Other Lies I Tell Myself: A Tired Supergirl’s Search for Truth, by Susanna Foth Aughtmon.

Right off the bat the title had me hooked, because there is a reason why I don’t wear bangs. Just sayin’.

Now, I have to tell you—this woman is my soul sistah. Case in point: in relating a story of an unfortunate laundry injury, Aughtmon writes, “I always knew the laundry was a tool of Satan.” OHMYGOSH—ME TOO!!! Can I get a “AMEN,” fellow soul sistahs?

Aughtmon’s writing is fresh and conversational. Her anecdotes are you’d-better-read-this-with-your-legs-crossed-if-you’ve-given-birth-more-than-once funny. But it’s not just a collection of funny stories. See, each chapter addresses a different lie the Liar (that would be Satan) uses to defeat us Tired Supergirls (oh— when you read the book, you get to be a member of the Tired Supergirl club. I mean, there’s not like a form to fill out, or an official membership card stuck between page 12 and 13 or anything like that. It’s like a secret sistahood of superness. And tiredness…).

On the subject of whether God really cares about each of us as individuals (because you know the Liar would love to have us believe that He doesn’t), Aughtmon uses the example of  her love for her own children:

“I am surrounded by three small people almost all day long…they still tend to cling to my legs or lie on me or breath very near to my face almost every day. Every once in a while I just yell out, ‘Everybody give me some room!’ This works for about 3.7 seconds, and then I am back to being swarmed. But the thing is, I would do anything for these three little people. I think about them almost all the time. I will do kung fu on anyone who tries to harm them. (I don’t even know kung fu, but I’m sure it will come to me if and when I need it.)”

 I personally like the image of Jesus breaking out the spiritual kung fu on my behalf.

One of my constant struggles is hearing God’s voice. Sometimes I think that because it took me so long to finally submit to listening to Him (okay, in the interest of truth and accountability and stuff, the whole submitting thing is still a work in progress. Don’t judge.), that my ears aren’t tuned in to Him like they should be. I am easy pray for the Liar when he says (in Susanna’s words): “Obviously, God has someone else he would rather talk to. There are certain people that he talks to, like pastors and small group leaders and Beth Moore, and then there is you. You? Not so much.”

Of course, God has given us the truth in His word. In each chapter, Susanna cites applicable scripture that speaks to the tired supergirl’s heart to confront the lies.

Many of my friends—not just my real life, hug you on the way out of church friends, but those sweet cyber-friends that I am so blessed to have met through the blog and the FB Down syndrome community—have told me, “You need to take everything you blog about and put it into a book.” I love when people say that, because it makes me feel all loved and validated and stuff. And I’d love to write a book like that, if I ever finish the novel I’m {THIS CLOSE} to finishing.

But while you’re waiting (and knowing me, it could be a long wait), you should totally check out My Bangs Look Good. Just don’t forget to cross your legs….

Seriously, go get the book. It’s available NOW at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group. Oh, and from Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/goodbangs  And in the meantime, you can check out Susanna’s blog, Confessions of a Tired Supergirl. It’s on my blogroll, over ———-> there.

Tags: A Tired Supergirl's Search for Truth, My Bangs Look Good and Other Lies I Tell Myself, Susanna Foth Aughtmon, Tired Supergirl

So, I promised that I would tell you the story of how The Hubby and I met during this, the month in which I am more-or-less certain the anniversary of that event takes place. I have since realized that I have actually failed to fulfill two similar promises regarding other stories since starting this blog. This is becoming an ugly habit. So I figured I’d better actually follow through this time.

The short story is that I won him. Seriously. Would I joke about true love? I won him fair and square…in a flirting contest.

I mean, he didn’t know it was a contest. And truthfully, it didn’t start out as a contest. But it ended up that way. And he was the prize.

It was my senior year of high school, and I was working retail. I had been dating a guy from work for several months. We’ll call him…Steve. No, that’s no good because I actually dated a Steve once. Let’s call him…Sam. I never dated a Sam, at least not that I remember.

So Sam and I went out and hit it off and started dating. To me, it was that last relationship before graduating from high school and moving away to college. Sam, however, put in for a transfer to a store in the town where I was going to attend college and started talking about apartment shopping together over the summer. Luckily, my manager pulled me aside and asked me how I felt about this, and assured me that he wouldn’t let the transfer happen. Whew, close call.

Sam also asked my best friend—-we’ll call her Darby, because I’ve always liked that name and The Hubby never would agree to name one of the girl-children Darby—- to find out my ring size and help him pick out an engagement ring to give me for Christmas. Now, call me shallow, but at 17 years old I had no problem being engaged until summer and then breaking up. Darby, however, wasn’t tuned to the same station. She informed Sam that I wasn’t going to marry him, because I was going to be a doctor (she was always convinced that I was going to be a doctor), and I was going to have to devote all my time to my studies and that he would only hold me back. In essence, she broke up with him for me. Which I would have thanked her for about six months down the road, but back in December it was a little premature. Not to mention the fact that she never actually ran the whole thing by me ahead of time.

So instead of an engagement ring, Sam bought me a necklace. All I could think of when I opened the box was, “Dang, this was supposed to be a ring.” I know, shallow. I was only 17—are you telling me you wouldn’t have thought the same thing when you were seventeen?  I bought Sam one of those mitzpah charms—you know, the coins cut in half that read “The Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from another.” I worked in the jewelry department, and during the busy Christmas season, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to shop.

Evidently Darby’s little lecture bothered Sam, because a few weeks after Christmas he had the nerve to break up with me because—–get this—- he said I was getting too serious about the relationship. Are you freaking kidding me?  Did he honestly think that Darby didn’t tell me about the ring? Which I threw in his face—I mean, the story about the ring, not the actual ring, since he didn’t actually end up buying a ring….

Anyway, that’s where I was at the time—about a month past the breakup with Sam. So one evening, my friend…Gigi and her friend…Lola and I decided to go out dancing. Gigi had the major hots for another guy we worked with…Manfred. Lola had a thing for …Bert. And I was still in my “men are whacked” phase after the whole Sam incident. So Gigi and Lola convinced me to swing by Manfred & Gary’s apartment (should we have some cheesy soap opera music in the background? I’m an anti-fan of blog music, but at this moment I’m really tempted…maybe I’ll just hum), only Manfred and Gary weren’t there. BUT their roommate P….Pete was there with his friend G…Gulliver.

No, that’s just wrong. I can’t write a story where I end up with a guy named Gulliver. I know—we’ll call him Mo.

Okay. So…Pete’s friend Mo…okay. I’m caught up. So Gigi, Lola, and I convinced Pete and Mo to come dancing with us. Now, here’s the thing you need to know about Gigi. Gigi was one of those girls who views every man she gets within 12 feet of as a potential husband. I had already seen her scare off a handful of potential husbands during the hey-we’re-not-even-dating stage. But she and Mo ended up sitting in the back seat, and I thought—Hmm, maybe they’ll end up liking each other. That was a good deal for me, because then I wouldn’t have to always be listening to Gigi complaining about not having a boyfriend, or watching her send yet another perfectly nice guy running for safety.

Now, when we picked the guys up, it was dark, so I didn’t get a good look at Mo. But when we stepped inside the club—well, lets just say I revised my whole try-and-fix-Gigi-up plan. Gigi and I took the traditional team walk to the ladies’ room, where she promptly exclaimed, “Oh my gosh—did you see Mo? Isn’t he GORGEOUS?” To which I replied, “Mmm-hmmm.”  Gigi took the opportunity to remind me that I had JUST gotten out of a relationship, and that it was her turn.

Turn? I wasn’t aware we were taking turns….

“Don’t you DARE flirt with him, Ashley. I mean it. He’s mine.”

Now, there’s just something about the word “dare,” isn’t there? It’s loaded. And I had no idea my flirting skills were so legendary.

“Look, we don’t even know if he’s” interested in either of us. I’ll make you a deal—NEITHER of us flirts, and we let him decide.”

So we struck a deal and walked back to our seats on either side of Mo. I thought he looked like he was about to turn his head my way, maybe strike up a conversation. And then Gigi grabbed his arm, and I saw the gauntlet fall to the floor at my feet.

“So, Mo, you’re from the Valley? I’m from Puerto Rico. We have palm trees in Puerto Rico. Are there palm trees in the Valley? I miss palm trees. I miss Puerto Rico. Have you ever been to Puerto Rico? You should go sometime. You could come visit my family—”

Now, somewhere around the word “so,” I realized that Gigi might just be the one person on the planet who could outtalk me. Outtalk, maybe. Outflirt? Never. So I did what any self-respecting victim of a breach in the no-flirting pact would have done….

I kicked off my shoe and started playing footsies with him under the table.

Hey, she had to come up for air sometime, and when she did, he turned to me and asked me to dance. The rest, as they say, is history.

I saw Gigi a few years back. We hadn’t seen eachother since I left to go to college. She noticed my ring–”Oh, you’re married?” I held it up high. You don’t think I’m so petty I would rub it in all those years later, do you?

Of course I would. All’s fair in love and flirting wars.

So I suppose this makes him my Trophy Husband….

Tags: flirting, relationships, The Hubby