I’m riveted by this site. It’s not G-rated and it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s raw, broken, funny, desperate, bizarre — it feels like who we all are in our fallen flesh. I dare you to go there and read just one secret. You won’t be able to stop there. Because somewhere, in someone else’s words, you’ll see yourself.
To the new incarnation of "Worship Naked"!
I hope you’ll make yourself at home here. I know that anything new takes an adjustment, so let’s all grab a cuppa coffee, pull up a chair, and start gettin’ comfy.
Because, frankly, it’s too darn purty around here.
So before I do anything else, I need to thank the fearless, faithful, and forbearing Wonder Woman who did basically everything ’round here. I simply showed her the artwork I wanted and she ran with it — farther than I ever could have imagined! I’ve been humbled by the tireless outpouring of her gifts and cheered by the simple sound of her sparkling laughter. And in the midst of doing all this, no less! She deserves all the accolades for any loveliness you see here.
Thank you, Wonder Woman, for your goodness to me.
(BTW: Any comments on posts before this date have not been transfered from the old site. If you wrote something particularly brilliant that you’re quite proud of, please go there and copy it, because I’m pretty sure I’m never going to get around to putting them here. I’m just being honest wich’ya. ;-))
Okay. I’ve officially succumbed to the Gladys Kravitz gene that lies dormant in every woman. And if you never watched — or heard of — "Bewitched," then, tragically, my reference is lost on you.
To clarify, I’m now a nosy, shameless, little spy.
Let me explain. There’s a good reason. I mean, I think "wanting to know, damnit!" is a very good reason for spying and such. Don’t you?
There are 6 town homes in our fine complex. The building sits on the edge of a canyon and each successive unit is a little farther down the hill, so to speak. We reside in Unit 2 near the top of the hill. The Focus Of My Madness lives in Unit 5, down the hill. So anybody in a unit with a higher number passes by our unit every day.
The FOMM is an Episcopalian priest who moved here last fall from Australia. He’s not a shy fellow, that one. His first day here he knocked on our door, thrust his hand towards me, and barked his name: "Tawny."
I paused. "Your name’s Tawny?"
"No. Taw-nee."
It sounded the same.
"Do you mean Tony, maybe?" I asked.
"Yeeece. That’s riawght. Tawny."
I quickly learned that if you allow Tawny a face lock, he will explain in breathtaking detail all the subtlety and intrigue that is Aussie rules football. Not that I mind much learning about this; I’m just not likely to convert from good, ol’, banal American football, which is clearly what Tawny wants. But it’s interesting in a sort of relentless, cross-cultural way.
What’s more interesting, though, is this:
My Beloved, who is good and kind and neighborly, frequently takes all 6 trash cans to the curb for trash day. The other evening we were sitting and reading in companionable, brainy silence, when My Beloved looked up from his book and proclaimed:
"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."
"Huh??"
I thought I’d heard wrong. I had no idea that what would follow would be a dizzying conversation, ending in a truly shocking allegation. My Beloved repeated:
"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."
I just stared, so he continued, clearly annoyed:
"How can he not have trash?!"
"I dunno. He lives alone. He probably doesn’t have a lot of trash."
"He has to have some! Toilet paper rolls, take-out containers, junk mail. Something!"
"Well, maybe it was just this week. Maybe he was gone and we didn’t know it."
"No! That’s not it! It’s every week."
"Well, what’s the big deal? I don’t get it."
Then came the stunning accusation from Mr. Neighborly:
"I think he puts his trash in other people’s cans so he doesn’t have to take out his trash can!"
I gasped. But, suddenly, it was all so clear. My Beloved was right. He must be right. Now that I thought of it, I’d never, ever seen Tawny, who walks by our place every darn day, carrying any trash. Laundry, yes. Briefcase, yes. Grocery bags, yes. Trash, no. Never. At least not during daylight hours. So if he had trash, he’d been taking it out under cover of darkness.
Why? What kind of flimflam was this guy running?! It was unheard of. Diabolical. A man of the cloth becoming a man of the Trash Can Scam? Outrageous.
That was it. Never mind the frenzy of snap judgments, the flood of unsubstantiated claims. Gladys Kravitz came roaring awake. I felt a sudden, rash urge to dump trash in his can. But I did not. And I have not.
Because I am a true hero.
Still …. I wonder …. where is the trash? The mysterious, invisible trash?
I’m not proud of it. But I can’t help it.
Gladys still peeps when he scurries past the window.
From A. W. Tozer: "Many tender-minded Christians fear to sin against love by daring to inquire into anything that comes wearing the cloak of Christianity and breathing the name of Jesus. They dare not examine the credentials of the latest prophet to hit their town lest they be guilty of rejecting something which may be of God. They timidly remember how the Pharisees refused to accept Christ when He came, and they do not want to be caught in the same snare, so they either reserve judgment or shut their eyes and accept everything without question. This is supposed to indicate a high degree of spirituality. But in sober fact it indicates no such thing. It may indeed be evidence of the absence of the Holy Spirit.
"Gullibility is not synonymous with spirituality. Faith is not a mental habit leading its possessor to open his mouth and swallow everything that has about it the color of the supernatural. Faith keeps its heart open to whatever is of God, and rejects everything that is not of God, however wonderful it may be. Try the spirits is a command of the Holy Spirit to the Church. We may sin as certainly by approving the spurious as by rejecting the genuine. And the current habit of refusing to take sides is not the way to avoid the question. To appraise things with a heart of love and then to act on the results is an obligation resting upon every Christian in the world. And the more as we see the day approaching."
Wow. It seems I’m right about the menfolk and their “cry place.” No one wants to talk about it!
Well, I understand. I do. I really hope I didn’t offend.
I was just interested, is all. 😉
Got this from The Anchoress, but I changed a few of the “questions.” Because I can. (Can’t I?)
A is for Age – of my sister’s dog? Okay. 2.
B is for Booze – Are you kidding? I was raised Baptist, so I’m a booze wimp. I like Kahlua and creme, though. But mostly the creme.
C is for Cookie you crave – These lucious, melty, crumbly chocolate chip shortbread cookies from a bakery in My Beloved’s hometown. Heavenly.
D is for Dating tip you’d give your son or daughter – “Well, son, don’t leave that bloody-nose-stopping tissue in your nose for your date to see. Most girls won’t like that. I know I didn’t.”
E is for Essential items to bring to a party – Believable excuse for a hasty exit.
F is for Favorite song at the moment – Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been listening to Eva Cassidy, “Fields of Gold” a lot.
G is for Goof off thing to do – Jump on the big trampoline with the nephews and niece.
H is for Hometown – Well, there’s the town where I was born and grew up, and then there’s the town I consider my hometown — Seattle, WA.
I is for Instrument you play – Piano, voice, flute.
J is for Jam or Jelly you like – Blackberry Jam or Green Pepper Jelly.
K is for Kids – Yes, it is.
L is for Living arrangement – Well, sheesh! I’m married. Not livin’ in sin, you know.
M is for Mom’s name – She hates her name, so I won’t say. Trust me. It’s bad.
N is for Name of first crush – Grade school. He was a dreamboat named Bosco Wasco. Seriously. I just love that name.
O is for Overexposed celebrity? – Paris Hilton.
P is for Phobias – Claustrophobia, a bit. Pyrophobia, but I have a really good reason for that one.
Q is for Quote you like – “If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid” Epictetus
R is for Relationship that lasted longest – My Beloved. And it’s the one I want to last the longest.
S is for Siblings – Two. A brother and a sister.
T is for Texas, ever been? – No! Everyone knows you don’t mess with Texas.
U is for Unique trait – I loathe name tags. It’s quite irrational.
V if for Vegetable you love – Love, love, love green beans and have them frequently for dinner. I just loves me da green beans.
W is for Worst trait – Because I couldn’t choose the worst of the worst, I called downstairs to My Beloved:
“What’s my worst trait!?”
There was a long pause. Then a very considered:
“I … don’t … kno-o-o-ow …”
Then:
“Well, your worst trait is setting your husband up for an all-day fight on a holiday weekend.”
So let’s go with that.
X – is for Xtra Credit, did you ever do it in school? – Hmm … I was geeky enough to do it, but also geeky enough not to need to do it. Sweet Moses.
Y is for Yummy food you make – Coconut Buttercream Cupcakes. I’d make them for you, but you would fall in love with me.
Z is for Zodiac sign – Leo.
All right. Who’s in? Let me know if you put this up at your place.
I hate to admit it, but this lyric got me thinking:
I want to be inside your heaven
Take me to the place you cry from
I listened to both American Idol finalists groan that ditty through my drippy, coughy stupor the other night. It was not a healing experience. But through that snuffly haze, a couple things struck me about that song:
First,
A sudden, but — I’m quite sure — abiding hate.
And, second, those lyrics about wanting to go to someone’s cry place? Pleeeease.
Now, looky here. Some poor guy in the throes of musical self-loathing and a flagging “adult contemporary music” career might sing that crap and droves of girls might still listen and swoon, “Oh, that is soooo sweet! He rilly cares about my feelings!” And he may really care about your feelings, sweetie, but that doesn’t mean he really wants to see you cry. He wants a little somethin’ else. But we girls are suckers for the notion, at least, that he loves us soooo much that he longs to share even our ghastly “cry place” with us.
Get real, chippies. Men love us in spite of our cry place.
But back to that song. Now Bo, the runner-up, the one who could have possibly sold it, doesn’t have to record those soul-sucking words.
But Carrie does.
And girls just shouldn’t sing that.
Ever.
Ev-aaahhh…..
I mean, what red-blooded, meat-eatin’, heterosexual guy wants to be swept away by a love song where the girl wails and implores him to “take me to the place you cry from”?!
Not that I’m opposed to men crying. It’s really not that.
I’m just sayin’.
I mean, men, doesn’t that make you feel rather …. icky? No matter if the singer is as fresh and lovely as the dawn, as Carrie is, don’t you feel …. a tad wussified if she sings that to you?
Do you want to take us to your cry place?
Because lemme tell you this: She’s a liar. She’s lying on behalf of all women, which I really don’t appreciate. So let’s come clean and talk a bit about the cultural crying game.
The truth — as I see it, of course:
We don’t want to see your cry place any more than you want to see ours.
And if the place a guy cries from is real close by and visited often? Well, he’s better off schlepping himself down to some dank neighborhood pub where he can sob into his Guinness alone, for all the lavish sympathy he’s likely to get from a woman. Most men, though, don’t have a “place” close by, a fact for which every woman on the planet should drop to her knees in eternal thanks.
I once dated a fellow in college who was a real crier. He used more tissue than I, routinely sniveling through my precious supply of Kleenex. He never offered to replace them either, which was equally bothersome, forcing me, in my private, elegant crying jags, to sog my pillow or my sleeves. I did not date the sniveller for long. There were other reasons for the breakup, but I can’t say that wasn’t a part of it, however small.
It’s exceedingly unfair, I know. It’s not that we don’t care when men cry, but I do think it causes us anxiety. Perhaps its very nakedness and messiness ties into our primal notions of the feminine and the masculine, of who “can” cry and who “can’t,” of who should and who shouldn’t. In my life, the number of times I’ve seen my father cry can be counted on one hand. Actually, one finger. He either just didn’t do it or didn’t show it. I’ve never thought to ask him about it, which I suppose is telling, too. The same restraint could not be said of my mother, though, who was more, ah, forthcoming.
But that’s the way we expect it to be, right? That’s even the way we prefer it. Right? Perhaps it’s sexist, this crying game, but it seems quite deeply entrenched in our psyches. Maybe that’s why my reaction to those lyrics was so fierce, so negative. It’s just buried there, expectations and all.
Most men’s “cry place” seems quite far away, actually, visited only on occasion. They seem somehow less manipulative with their tears, saving them for that which is truly deep, monumental, or transforming. And because women don’t witness this that often, because men generally do “spare us,” I think the emotional muscles women need in order to respond rightly are a bit weak and flabby. No matter that we may seem calm and compassionate on the surface. Inside, we just may be freaking out, shaken, wondering how to make the world right again.
But our cry place? Ohhh, it’s much, much closer. We’ve all been there. Probably far too many times. The place is a mess, what with the scattered wads of sodden tissue and the empty, dripping containers of Haagen Dasz strewn about. Which we didn’t even share, I might add. Frankly, some of these places need serious renovation to repair the perpetual leakage.
And, men, we don’t just “take” you there, which sounds nearly inviting; we lie in wait to kidnap and drag you away from all you hold dear, which in that moment is pretty much anything and everything else. At least I do, ha! But, you lucky men, with all that overexposure to the horrid cry place, all that working out, your cry management muscles are more taut and supple and ready for the teary challenge, real or contrived, trauma or TV commercial.
I admire you, men.
Such stalwart forbearance in the face of our sometimes quixotic natures.
A (*gasp*) difference between men and women?
Or a societal expectation?
Both?
So I ask what I asked earlier — because I do want to know:
Do you want to take us to your cry place?
You’d better tell me.
I just might blub if you don’t.
… everyone but Carrie, the new American Idol, she of the sweetly vacant eyes, who must now hope for a hit with a truly wretched song that goes like this:
Uh, yer looking at it.
Bo. Baby. Trust me. You didn’t lose.
Will post when I’ve bounced back!
Hey, ever worry about your ability to tell the difference between computer geeks and serial killers?
Well, fret no more!
(That is, if you score well on this helpful test.)
I scored 8/10. So don’t even try to kill me. At least 80% of the time.
Does this mean that 20% of the time, I will wrongly accuse computer geeks of murdering me?
Well, just don’t murder me, geeks.
So there.
Plus, I do own a gun.
So there.
Oh, and ruining my self-important buzz here, My “Beloved” insists on weighing in:
M”B”: Tell them I scored 9/10.
Me: Tell them yourself. God opposes the proud, you know.
M”B”: But I was 10% better than you. I can spot ’em 90% of the time.
Me: How nice for you. (eyes squinching) Guess who your missing 10% is?
