I tout myself as a thrifty person – one who hates to waste anything – and will find a use for every half-used jar of marmalade, every discarded ribbon from a birthday present, every unloved piece of furniture.

However, I am a fraud – no better than a snake oil salesman.

My parents recently visited me in Nashville, and my dad bought a 2-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi.  I don’t drink pop, but I couldn’t bring myself to dump out the still half-full bottle when he left.  So rather than tossing the $1’s worth of leftovers down the drain, I went out and spent $20 on a bottle of rum.

Rum and Diet Pepsi isn’t even an awesome drink.

But I tell you what: every drop of that Diet Pepsi was utilized.

Still, that was really stupid financial reasoning.

I suppose even angels fall.

Call me a killjoy, but I don’t think I will ever be the kind of woman who joins the Red Hat Society.

No offense.

Today, I am back to reality – back to Nashville, back to the heat, back to work, back to the gym, back to balancing my checkbook, back to routine, back to a schedule.

It feels quite wretched, so much so that I accidentally started bawling last night when I got back – “accidentally” being that I didn’t mean to… it just happened.  Then Julie and Mel and I laid in a circle on my bedroom floor, each of us curled on our side, and I felt a little bit better.

But returning from vacation can feel unstomachable – especially when the previous 12 days had been full of so many good things: family, mountains, ocean, orcas, food, wine, Seattle, music, friends, and dancing to Backstreet Boy’s “Larger Than Life” at Miranda and Will’s wedding.

1999 never sounded so good.  Not even in 1999.

In my absence from real life (i.e. The Internet), I missed Michael Jackson’s funeral, Steve McNair’s murder, Sarah Palin’s resignation, any 4th of July festivities, and the electric bill.  Also, I gained 10 lbs.

Not that I know.  But I KNOW.

I’m overwhelmed with all that I have to catch up on, make up for, rein in, cut out, and resume.  My inbox piled up with emails while I was away, but don’t worry – no one called me except for collections agencies looking for one “Daniel Perkins.”

Today, I sally forth, and will dig myself out of this funk.

As Christians, we are called to mourn with those who mourn, and rejoice with those who rejoice.  But often times, it feels like the mourning part actually comes more easily; the whole rejoicing thing often strikes a very sensitive spot in our hearts, surfacing the ugly things that we don’t like to admit we struggle with, like jealousy, and bitterness, and loneliness, and disappointment.

I will be honest: these can be my ugly truths.  Not my ALWAYS truths, but my occasional old faithfuls.  They are comforting like bourbon, burning on the way down – but hot damn, it feels good.

I have been a bridesmaid more times than I can count.  In a few weeks, I will aisle-walk for the 4th time in just 9 months – not to mention the many, many times over the past 8 years.

And here is the very honest truth: sometimes, behind the hair and the smile and the makeup and the $80 shoes, it can sting.  Even in the midst of believing wholeheartedly in the couple, and seeing her girlfriend so deliriously happy it’s infectious, and wanting nothing less than the entire world for her friends, even the most confident and unhurried woman can question if it will ever happen for her.

By the way – and I’m pretty confident that every woman reading this could back me up – this is not “desperation.”  This is “design.”  So shush – I don’t want to hear it.

Yesterday, I stood in Seattle beside one of my very best friends, Miranda, as she married the man of her dreams, Will.  Their story is so outlandish, so romantic, so heart-stopping, it’s preposterous.  It’s the kind of story that has the potential to kill the hope in a single girl’s heart, because whoa – that is so not fair.

But standing as witness to their vows, I saw truth, and beauty, and intensity, and love.  I heard them make promises to each other that will not be easy to keep – but voiced my agreement that I will do everything in my power to encourage and uphold them.  And I found myself so moved by the event, by their pledges, by the small group of people who literally circled them in support and love, that hardened shell around my very sensitive heart cracked, and out flowed pure joy.

If the ability to simply rejoice isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.

Miranda and Will’s story reminds me to believe that impossible stuff can happen, that some things are worth holding out for, and most of all, that God is faithful.  It’s a story so important that it prompts me to write about it here, no matter how vulnerable it feels to admit “It’s hard to watch my friends get married” or “I struggle with hope.”

So what if I do.  So what if YOU do.

God’s faithfulness doesn’t change.

And the story that is being told through Miranda and Will, and me, and you, is better than any romantic comedy.

Congratulations, my sweet friends.  I am elated with you, and was so honored to be a part of your day.  I love you both!

After racing my dad to the top of Mt. Roberts in Juneau on Sunday, I spent some time walking around the town.  Which, of course, led to an interesting encounter – because do I ever elude the interesting encounters?

I met a greasy man on a street corner who took one look at me, and immediately, very excitedly – in one breath – said, “How long are you in town? Do you live here?  I’M A ROCK STAR!”

He proceeded to walk me back to the ship, and claim that he is not only a rock star, but a genius, a friend of the governor, and insane.  I believed him on one account.

After hearing that I live in Nashville, he informed me that he is moving to Nashville, and has a goal of getting a record deal by November 1 (“and by the way, do you think you could set me up with Michael W. Smith?”).  He gave me his phone number and his MySpace address, saying that I could spend “several months” on his MySpace page, there is so much to see.  He talked and talked and talked, spewing out eccentricities and grand statements about life, and without skipping a beat, ended with, “You know what?  Meeting me might be the highlight of your trip.”

I high-fived him, because maybe, dude.

But I’m leaning toward the night when the Parsons walked out onto the front deck of the ship while in open seas, thinking we could get some fun pictures, but not being prepared for the amount of SHEER TERROR the wind would bring, and after all of our dresses had blown up revealing whatever we had underneath, and hitting the deck to avoid being blown over the edge entirely, and Sarah’s driver’s license flying into the Pacific Ocean, and everyone holding hands for stability, and screaming our lungs out, and tears streaking our faces… realizing that the entire navigational crew was watching from their windows above.

No rock star, genius, insane man from Juneau can compete with the involuntary flashing of Polynesian men.

The cruise ship is a battle zone, and I am at war.

I refuse to gain a pound a day.

But this is proving to take some serious combat.

I wake up each morning and put on my armor: a reasonable breakfast of one egg over easy, a small bowl of cereal, and an Americano.  But after that, it is clear to me that the ms Zaandam wants me guillotined.

Their battle cry:
Free food! All day!
Stuff yourself at the buffet!

Over and over.  And over.  And starts again at 11pm.

I am notoriously thrifty, hate to waste anything, and to hear that something is free makes me want to take full advantage.  You mean to tell me that I can order three appetizers, an entrée, AND dessert?  Get down on it, mama.

Thankfully, there is a gym at the front of the ship, and I’ve been running off 19,000 calories every day.  I have also taken on the identity of Elevator Hater, and walk the 8 flights of stairs at least 12 times each day.  In heels.

This is my martyrdom.  Because if you haven’t gorged yourself on mussels, bread, scallops, cheese trays, salmon, filet mignon, cookies, papaya, guacamole, pasta, and hot fudge brownie sundaes, washed it all down with wine and mojitos and margaritas, and then navigated 8 flights of stairs on a swaying ship in a cocktail dress and heels, then I’m sorry, my friend.

You do not know sacrifice.

This morning, I woke up in Seattle.

I am about to board a ship dedicated by Mary-Kate and Ashley in the year 2000.

If I get the chance, I will karaoke Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow’s “Cruisin’” with a stranger – and that is a promise.

Bon voyage!

In my opinion, the world’s scariest creature is not a shark, or a bear, or even a naked mole rat.  The one beast that I never hope to meet in a dark alley is a moose.

Moose are some mean mother truckers.

Ever since I read “Hatchet,” and the kid was stranded alone in the Canadian wilderness, and the moose swam up in the lake UNDERNEATH HIM and gored him with his horns, I have been terrified.  This is unfortunate, because tomorrow, I will board a boat bound for the Last Frontier, where people see moose outside of the local Applebees.

But who knows – maybe moose will win me over.

Perhaps if Alison Krauss serenaded the encounter?

(Why does that make me want to laugh so hard?)

Speaking of savage behemoths, I just learned that the state marine animal of Alaska (every state should have one) is the bowhead whale.  This is by far the ugliest beast I have ever seen.

If I don’t return, you can either blame the state of Alaska for death-by-wildlife, or Christopher McCandless for the inspiration to just never come back.  At this point, it’s a toss up.

Jeremy: “I have some great ideas for pictures on the cruise.”

Me: “Awesome!”

Jeremy: “I know.  There’s one shot that I’m positive I’ll have to get.”

Me: “Cool – what is it?”

Jeremy: “Well, it will be you, in some sort of dress.  And we’ll go to the very front of the boat.  And you’ll climb up on the railing, and spread out your arms.  And we’ll find a deckhand to come up behind you and whisper into your ear…”

Trust me: if we make this happen, you will be seeing it.