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getting what you need

My niece Piper was visiting us this weekend.  So I didn’t blog or really look at the blogosphere much.  And that was just fine with me.

Because I needed …. something else altogether.

I needed to twirl until I was dizzy, crazily spinning back time to when I  was four years old.

I needed to jump madly on the bed, my  bed, and not care one whit how messy it got.

I needed to blow bubbles in the park, giggling as she tirelessly chased them down across the wet, squishy grass.

Then I needed to watch, bursting with pride, as she gave the rest of her "bubble juice" to another little girl in the park who didn’t have any "bubble juice." 

I needed to lose every wretched, mind-numbing game of Candyland to a certain cherubic cheater.   

I needed to sit at the kitchen table with her, globbing paint on cheap little wooden gliders. 

Then I needed to comfort her when hers broke immediately thereafter, telling her she could have Tee Tee’s plane.

Then, again, I needed to console her when that one crashed into the monkey bars, shattering, after its ill-fated first flight in the park.

I needed to be enchanted as my beautiful friend, arms outstretched to Piper, led her to dance freely before the Lord during worship.

And I needed to dance with them.

I needed to run, run, run along the pier, faster than the waves, with the salt air sharp in my nostrils and the wind ferocious in my hair.

I needed to stand at ocean’s edge with her, breathless for the next insolent wave to soak through our properly rolled-up jeans.

Then I needed to stroll, unashamed, down the street in my soggy, sandy clothes, slurping up ice cream … with rainbow sprinkles.

I needed to laugh deliriously with her when the lazy Kodiak bear at the zoo finally roused himself from slumber only to relieve himself right in front of us.

I needed to run away from the pushy, icky goat at the petting zoo because, well, I’m afraid of goats.  But she isn’t, so she laughed at me.

I needed to give her "some pwivacy" when she showered.  And then be ready when she called for help 10 seconds later.

I needed to lie in bed face to face at bedtime while I stroked her arms and she chattered about her busy day.

Then I needed to tell her how much Jesus just adores her.

Then I needed, but didn’t know I needed, to have my four-year-old niece pat my cheek and say, "Tee Tee, you’re such a cutie-pie."

I needed to lose sleep as she snoringly slept on top of me — or glued to my back — no matter what I did or how I maneuvered.

But I also needed to sleep holding hands, like hobbits, because she likes to sleep that way.

And I needed to wake up the next day to her smiling, pillow-smushed cheeks to do it all over again.   

I needed to be something I may never be — a mom.  

Just a fleeting taste of that blessed, everyday sweetness.

And sweetness is a precious commodity in this place, in these times. 

So I need to keep thankfulness on my lips  … always … for sweetness such as this …

"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."  Psalm 107:1

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where are my manners?

So I’m at Costco the other day.  We all know Costco, right?  Basically a hangar-sized building filled to the brim with enough bulk items to satisfy any shopper’s greedy, grabby consumer lust.  In other words, a place that fills me weepy, sloppy love.  And I still love Costco even though I worked there in high school, which should have had a lifelong repellent effect.  Not for me.  When I’m at Costco, I know Jesus loves me.

So … I’m at Costco the other day.  Somehow I managed to subdue my pounding desire for that 10-pound bag of potato chips, that silo full of Red Vines, that moon-sized pizza.  Smug with my utter dominance over The Sirens’ Call of Costco, I approached the checkout with only 5 — yep, count ’em, 5 — items.  I did, however, succumb to some practical items, like The Raft o’ Toilet Paper.  Hey, get yourself enough of those and you have what I call the guest bed.

Surprisingly, the line wasn’t that long.  And trust me, I know what a long line at Costco is.   As I stood there,  4 or 5 more people fell in line behind me.  Moments later, my turn, and I was quite giddy about it, frankly.  But just then, on the brink of my precious turn, up strolled Duchess McSnooty Voice. 

Stepping in front of me, she clipped, "May I cut in front of you?  I only have a few things."

Quickly, I glanced and counted.  Well, okay.  She did have only a few things.  Seven, to be precise.  I heard The Lady Behind Me breathe one of those lingering, huffy breaths. 

Now, I’m not opposed to letting someone in front of me who has fewer items than I do.  I’ll even offer, because, by golly, I’m just that wonderful.  But when there are other people in line behind me, I find things get … fuzzy.  Because, really, aren’t you asking to go in front of everyone in line, Duchess? 

I was entering a weird area.  Duchess McSnooty Voice was waiting and staring at me, The Lady Behind Me was waiting and huffing at me, and I just wanted to go home to peace and quiet and the blessed security of my glorious Raft o’ Toilet Paper.

Plus, I wanted one of themthere yummy Costco hot dogs as a reward for all that temptation I had resisted.

Crumbling under the weight of all the staring and huffing, I looked at Duchess McSnooty Voice and said, with a sagacity far beyond my years:

"Well,  I don’t have a problem with it" (just a wee Pinocchio),"but why don’t you ask the people behind me if it’s okay with them, too?"

This, to me, seemed utterly sane and reasonable.  I was quite taken with myself.

Instantly, The Lady Behind Me stopped huffing.  Duchess McSnooty Voice, however, kept staring.  At me, like I was crazy.  Then I did the unpardonable, I guess.  I smiled at her.  And she stomped away.  Huffing. 

Was it something I said?

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can santa go to hell?

So, I’m going to hell. Yesterday, I had a phone conversation with my 4-year-old niece where I pretended to be Santa Claus.

Yup. And this blog is now my cyber confessional.

Here’s the scene: My sister and I were on the phone. In the background, I heard Piper saying she wanted to "talk on da phone." Now, she didn’t know who my sister was talking to, and once she said hello, something …. happened to me. I spontaneously, inexplicably found myself saying, in the single WORST man-voice imitation of all time, "Ho Ho Ho! Pii-perrr …. this is Saaanntaa!"

(When I re-enacted it later for My Beloved, he couldn’t look directly at me. He simply cringed and declared, "Uhh, you sound more like a ghost. Or the Movie Phone guy.")

But it’s TRUE. I DID.

So I truly thought there was no chance — NO CHANCE — that she’d fall for it. Of course, the jig would be up instantly. I mean, I’d never been able to fool her with a "voice" before. But then there was an audible gasp on the other end of the phone. I waited for her to say, chidingly, "Tee Tee, I know it’s you." But she didn’t. Her little, speech-classed voice excitedly said:

"Santa?! Hi, Santa!"

(Ohhhhhh, nooo. Flames of hell tickling my toes.)

I had a split second to decide. I was so sure she’d already be laughing at me and saying, "You so funny, Tee Tee." But once I realized she was actually BELIEVING me, I had to keep going. What was I going to DO? Stop in the face of such excitement and lamely say, "Ha ha ha. Just kidding, Piper"?

So girding my dubious wits for this festive fraud, I bellowed:

"Have you been a good girl, Pii-perrr?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I be good," she breathed.

"Well, why don’t you tell Sanntaa what you want for Christmas?"

Holy MOLY, I sounded stupid. The hellfires were spreading. So was the sweat. At that point, I just prayed that she’d keep believing.

She said something I couldn’t quite make out, so I just replied:

"Welll, o-kaaay. Sanntaa is writing that down. What else do you want for Christmas, Pii-perrr?"

I almost cried when she said, simply, "Dust a toy."

I had to pause to take a breath.

"What kind of toy, Pii-perrr?"

"Dust a toy," she repeated.

I told her I was writing that down, too. I was about to lose it. I wasn’t sure if I’d melt into tears or laughter, but one of them was imminent.

"So, Pii-perrr, are you going to leave Sanntaa some cookies to eat?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I wiw!"

"Ho Ho OHH, that’s good. Sanntaa likes cookies!" (Seriously, Movie Phone guy, watch out.)

"Okay," she said softly.

Finally, I said, "O-kaay, Pii-perrr. I’m coming to your house on Christmas Eve. But you need to be asleep. Okaaay, Pii-perrr?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I be sweeping for shore."

"That’s good. You make Sanntaa verry haappy. HO HO HO! Bye Bye, Pii-perrr!"

Oh …. Sweet …. Lord …. forgive …. me. Fraud over, I collapsed back on the sofa to catch my breath. My sister was back on the line.

"Oh, thank you for calling, Santa." I could tell she was stifling laughter. She was gently coaxing Piper to leave the room so we could talk, but apparently, my niece was frozen in place, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed statue.

I told my sister, "Tell her Santa needs to talk to mommy about some Christmas surprises." (Refer to forgiveness plea above.)

She did, and Piper bolted from the room. My sister was in hysterics.

"How did you do that without laughing?"

"I don’t know!" I wailed.

"I could hear you. That was the worst voice I’ve ever heard you do."

"I know!" I wailed.

"All those years of acting and THAT’S what you come up with?"

"I KNOW!" I wailed.

It’s true — it was simultaneously the best AND worst performance I’d ever done.

"Well, I don’t know how she bought it, but she did. Her eyes were bugging out of her head."

My sister called this morning with news of the aftermath of SantaScam 2004. Apparently, immediately after the phone call, my elated niece insisted on calling her Nana and Pop-Pop to tell them Santa had called. She’s also quite adamant about the cookies. My sister tried to fob off some fudge on Santa, but Piper would have none of it. "No, Mommy. Santa wants cookies. He tole me. He tole me!"

I know. I know. Santa’s going to hell.

And without any cookies, too.

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“some straights and some homos”

(Names have been changed in this post.)

So My Beloved and I went to a "gay" Christmas party Saturday night. When we mentioned that we were attending this party, there were a few raised eyebrows from Christian friends. But let me explain.

Our neighbors in the townhome next door are a gay couple named Mike and Lee. In the year since we bought this place, we’ve become friends. We know they’re gay; they know we’re Christians. I remember early on having one of those get-to-know-you conversations where they both shared about their families. Mike described growing up destitute and fatherless, one of twelve children in the coal mining country of West Virginia. At that point, Lee chimed in, "Yeah, hon. You were a real coal miner’s daughter." I howled with laughter. How can you resist that?

Mike is 54 years old and HIV positive. He is gaunt, in frequent pain, and on total disability. Whenever I hug or touch him — which is pretty much every time I see him — he seems genuinely surprised. He has an older, Christian sister whom he adores, calling her his "soul mate." One day when he was talking about her, though, he said, "Yeah. She doesn’t smoke or drink or swear. You know, all the things that make you a Christian." Lee was listening and added, "Oh, yeah. And you need to believe in Jesus." (Now, I’d been trying to tread lightly with my friends here — something I’m not good at — but THAT was an opening if there ever was one.) I looked at both of them and quietly (only because I was nervous) said, "And you know what? Out of all those things you said, that’s the only one that matters at all." They looked at me, a bit taken aback, and one of them changed the subject. Actually, that was fine with me for a couple reasons: First, I felt sure hyperventilation was imminent and, second, I know that the conversation is not over.

But I need to tread lightly here, trusting only in the Holy Spirit for guidance and wisdom, because, frankly, the gay community is neither impressed nor touched by our "love" for them. They think we’re full of it and they’re not far off. When we moved in last year, I had Christians warn me to "watch out for those gays, they’ll stab you in the back." (And we Christians never would. Naturally.) How many times have we heard Christians we know refer to homosexuals as "those fags" or "those queers" or some other slam, delivered with great relish and equal contempt? How many times have we done that ourselves?

Recently, Lee shared a bit more about his family. They’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and he was, too, until a few years ago. He has never told his mother and grandmother, who live locally, that he’s gay or that he lives with his lover. In order to maintain any kind of relationship with them, he’s felt compelled to tell this rather unconvincing lie: that Mike is his landlord and he just rents a room from him. All because, he says, they would reject him if they knew the truth. "They would have to," he says, "because of their religion."

In his book "What’s so Amazing about Grace?" Philip Yancey relates this quote from a gay man who came from a Christian background: "I still believe. I would love to go to church, but whenever I’ve tried, someone spreads a rumor about me and suddenly everyone withdraws. As a gay man, I’ve found it’s easier for me to get sex on the streets than to get a hug in church."

That simply should never, ever be.

Touchingly, Mike and Lee are unfailingly good and generous to us. Many times, I’ve come home to find a friendly note taped to our door or a bag of goodies warming our welcome mat. If my husband is out of town, they’re my guardian angels, watchfully checking up on me. Their fondness for calling me "honey" and "sweetie" always makes me smile. They are loving, big-hearted men and I can’t seem to keep up with their kindnesses. But I want to — because they’re my friends. You’d all be lucky to have friends like our gay friends.

So about the party. Several weeks ago, Mike approached me and said, "We’re having a Christmas party and we want you to come. There’s gonna be some straights and some homos. What d’you think?" He seemed to be watching anxiously for my response. I looked him straight in the eye, smiled, and said, "Well, sounds like a party to me. We’ll be there."

And you know what? It was a lovely party and I had a great time. Sure, I was the only woman there, but, hey, gay men have a certain winning way of fawning over a woman that is utterly non-threatening because it’s non-sexual. They draw you in, relax you, and charm your socks off. No woman in her right mind would have a problem with that. And, sure, My Beloved, that hunka hunka burning man love, was good-naturedly hit on by a giant, burly, lumberjackish fellow. "Yeah. I know you’re straight," The Lumberjack joked. MB laughed and replied, "Yeah. And that’s my wife over there." Mostly, though, we talked about football, which may rattle some people’s stereotypes of gay men. Anyone walking into that home would have simply seen a bunch of enthusiastic men — and one chick — talking football and making friends.

Still, there are many Christians who’d say that we shouldn’t have gone. "You’re advocating that lifestyle," they might say. Or, "You’re sending the wrong message." No, I’m not. To me, not going would have sent the wrong message — one of rejection and judgment. I’m convinced it was important for us to go precisely because we’re Christians. I like to think Jesus would have been there, in the fray, scarfing meatballs and talking football.

But, in truth, it was no great sacrifice on our part, no righteous crusade. For, perhaps even more controversially, they are our friends. They’re our friends.

You’d all be lucky to have friends like our gay friends.

What if you asked God to bring you some?

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to be a good samaritan, part 3

So how do I mingle compassion and respect here? And by "respect" I mean not just deference for his person, his dignity, but also for his privacy. He may very well want to be left alone. And if someone desires that — however convinced we may be of their rampant "needs" — musn’t we, as Christians, respect that? Or do we charge in like marauding spiritual warriors, crying, "We’ve got the Lord’s work to do. Dignity and privacy be damned!"

Let’s face it. Just because you have the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean you’re not annoying. I’m annoying. So in this situation, I’m just as capable as the next well-intentioned Christian of mucking things up. Probably more so. Possibly irreparably. Which is why I’m blogging about it instead of banging on Bill’s door.

Because … if I think I’m loving someone, but he feels bothered, have I loved him? If I think I’m serving someone, but he feels burdened, have I served him?

It’s interesting. As I’ve prayed about this, the Lord’s graciously given me three things: the chance to see Bill again, an answer to prayer, and, because of the first two, an end to this story — for now. Here’s what’s happened.

The other night, my husband and I went for a walk. I confess we did stop at a nearby apartment complex and inquire after Bill. But if he lived there, no one knew him. A little dejected, we stepped back to the sidewalk …. and there he was, limping toward us with his cane in one hand and a bag in the other. He wore a white, floppy hat and a stained sweatshirt. His head was down. I was relieved to see him, so, impulsively, I spoke.

"Bill?"

He looked up, wary.

And I kept talking.

"Hi. Yeah. We met you — the other night?"

We reintroduced ourselves. He spoke then, remembering us.

"Oh, yeah. Hi."

This time, I smelled alcohol. I saw beer in his bag.

"So how’re you doing? You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything turned out fine. I just hadn’t eaten. But I’m okay." He didn’t look directly at us. He fiddled with his cane.

"Well, we’re really glad to hear that."

"Yeah, you know. Thanks for everything."

My husband reminded him, "Hey, I’ve still got your beer. Do you want me to bring that by? You live right here?"

"Yeah," he gestured vaguely. "Up those stairs. But you can just keep the beer. That’s okay."

"You sure?"

"Oh, yeah. Uh, don’t bother. Save it for the Chargers game or something," he insisted.

"Okay. Thanks."

He spoke as he started to shuffle away.

"Well, it was good to see you."

We didn’t know what else to say.

"Yeah. Good to see you, too. Glad you’re doing okay. We’ll see you around, hopefully."

And that was it.

Awkward. Polite. But clear: "I feel humiliated. I like my privacy."

Back home after this encounter, I opened my Bible. The Lord led me to Proverbs 19:2:

"It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way."

Ah. My answer to prayer.

O Lord, temper my zeal with knowledge. I don’t want to be hasty. I don’t want to miss the way. I’ll wait for You to show me.

Wait and pray. Wait and pray.

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to be a good samaritan, part 2

So, at the end of part 1, I said that there’s another thing to consider here. I believe it’s this: In a split second, Bill’s private, medical need was thrust into public view. It was sudden, involuntary, and unwelcome. Nearly every day we can see the needy, desperate people on street corners, wielding their flimsy signs, proclaiming their naked need. Those who frequent shelters are openly admitting at least some of their needs. But Bill was just walking home from the store when neediness broke in like a thief, brazenly stealing his privacy and dignity. And I was just an unexpected witness trying to keep the thief at bay. So how, in this aftermath, do I proceed? Would Bill even care to see me again or would I simply be an unwanted reminder of that night he lay in the road, vulnerable and incontinent? How do I ensure that my presence serves as a restorer of dignity rather than a reminder of indignity?

When Jesus ministered, He restored wholeness and dignity without intrusion or condescension. When the woman with the issue of blood fought her way through the crowd, touched His robe, and was healed, Jesus stopped and spoke to her. The throng regarded her as a wretched, worthless outcast, yet Jesus showered her with praise and blessing.

"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."

In front of everyone who had ostracized her, Jesus miraculously restored more than her body. He restored her dignity. In an instant, the outcast was praised, blessed, and transformed.

Jesus ministered with perfect compassion and perfect respect. So, regarding Bill, how do I mingle compassion with respect, flawed and fallible as I am?

And since I don’t have time tonight to explore this further, I’ll do it in, yes …. part 3.

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to be a good samaritan

I’m just a little bit crazy about neighborhood Christmas lights and decorations. And somehow, I’ve managed to parlay this obsession into a nearly nightly holiday ritual. My Beloved and I, fueled by coffee, pile in the car and set off on our drive-by quest for Christmas magic.

We were driving home from this jingle bell jaunt on Saturday night when we met him. As we turned onto our street, he was staggering across the road, his cane barely keeping him upright. His grocery bag had been dropped in the middle of the road. We swerved to avoid hitting him. As we came to a stop, I rolled down the window.

"Sir, do you need some help?"

By that time, he’d stumbled across the street and was leaning precariously against the hood of a parked truck. His face ashen, his hair disheveled, he just stared at me and gasped, "No, I’m okay."

He clearly wasn’t. I hesitated.

"Can I get that bag for you?"

"No, that’s okay," he breathed, feebly.

I hesitated again. Our car was idling in the on-coming traffic lane.

"Well, why don’t I just get that for you? You stay there."

He just stared again and I jumped from the car to retrieve the bag. As I dashed across the lane towards him, he crumpled to the ground, his cane clattering after him. And in that flashing moment as he fell, I panicked: "What if he’s having a heart attack? What if he’s having a stroke? What if he’s not breathing? Do I know what to do? And can I do it?" Scared out of my wits, I was sure my limited knowledge wouldn’t meet his needs. My husband pulled the car to the side of the street and ran towards me. It was then of all moments that I remembered neither of us had our cell phones. I couldn’t believe it.

"Call 911!" MB ran to the nearest house and started scaring neighbors.

I leapt towards the man on the ground, certain he was dead. Dropping to my knees beside him, I stared into his face. He was conscious, moaning. I grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. I’m not sure whose heart was beating faster.

"Sir, are you with me?"

"Yeah. I’m here. I don’t know what happened. I just got dizzy."

I asked him if he was having chest pain. He said no.

I knelt there with my hand on his. "What’s your name?" I asked. I noticed the tips of his fingers had been amputated.

"Bill."

"Well, Bill, we’re calling 911. We’re going to have someone check you out."

He lodged a mild protest, but I pressed him, saying, "Well, I think there’s a reason you fell, Bill. Why don’t we let the experts make sure you’re okay? They’ll be here any minute."

And, just then, of course, My Beloved and Kind Neighbor Jeff ran up and announced that 911 had them on hold. Bill smiled a bit at this. "What a surprise," he managed. Realizing the wait would be a little longer than "any minute," Kind Neighbor Jeff retreated to get Bill a blanket, MB took some newspaper and fashioned a pillow, and I gently rearranged his legs into a more comfortable position. As I did so, I noticed his orthopedic shoes and wondered if his feet were as compromised as his hands.

He lay there, we sat there, and I chided him, "Well, Bill, you sure have an interesting approach to meeting your neighbors."

"Yeah," he chuckled.

MB asked, "When was the last time you ate, Bill?"

"I had breakfast …. yesterday. Maybe I need to rethink that."

We agreed. And as we continued our inquiries, we learned he had myriad medical problems requiring numerous medications. Silent prayers for him began flooding my heart.

"Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family nearby?"

"No, there’s no one. I live alone."

The ground was shiveringly cold. Sitting there, I had the nagging feeling that I wasn’t doing enough, that even with a blanket he must be far too cold, that maybe it hurt him when I moved his legs, that maybe he didn’t want my hand on his. I wanted to reassure him that he was in good hands, but he was just in my hands.

His forgotten grocery bag lay next to me. Peeking inside, I noticed some beer. Based on the situation, it would have been easy to make assumptions. But Bill did not smell of alcohol. He talked about the homeless and their camps in the nearby canyons. Without saying it, his dignity was pleading this clear point: "I am not homeless." As he lay there waiting, he spoke repeatedly of his embarrassment. And in that moment, my anxious heart did not know how to assuage his sense of indignity.

Finally, help arrived. Lots of help. Questions were fired in all directions. At one point, Kind Neighbor Jeff referred to Bill as an "older" gentleman.

Bill winced. "Older?"

"But with a youthful glow," I countered.

As the paramedics picked him up and loaded him onto the gurney, I heard one of them say, too loudly, "Oh, he’s also incontinent." I cringed, but involuntarily, my glance fell to the ground where Bill had lain. It was wet. I hadn’t known. None of us had. I knew the paramedics were just doing their job, but I wished — how I wished — they could have whispered. As we waved goodbye, MB promised to take good care of the beer. Bill responded, "You’d better. I’ll be coming for it."

This is lengthy, I know, but I relate the story because, since it happened, I’ve been mulling over what it means to be a good Samaritan. Mostly, I’ve been asking myself what now? What do I do now? I mean, I know approximately where he lives. I could go bang on some doors to find him. My heart feels a tug towards this. But more important than my heart are these questions: What does Bill want? And what does Bill need?

During our talk, I found myself making little life prescriptions for him. He said he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day. Assuming hunger was an issue, I began planning the nice bag of groceries I’d take to him. But then I considered. Why is he skipping meals? Is it because he just isn’t hungry? because he isn’t feeling well? because he forgets? or is it because he doesn’t have enough food? He mentioned he had no family nearby, that he lived alone. Assuming loneliness was an issue, I began planning regular visits to see him. But then I considered again. What if a visit would be an intrusion to him? What if he likes his privacy?

I might perceive he has needs, but are they his actual needs or even his perceived needs? I shouldn’t assume — in the name of compassion — that my perceptions and his needs are identical. Because once I assume that and act on it, compassion crumbles, doesn’t it? Let’s say I take him some groceries, for instance, and he doesn’t actually want or need them. Now I’ve only left him with the burden of acting grateful when, perhaps, he’s just feeling embarrassed. In that instance, what I dress up as compassion is actually self-serving arrogance in disguise.

But there is another thing to consider …. in the "part 2" that I’ve just realized this very long post needs ….

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the chronicles of the end times

Disclaimer: This post describes a recent humiliating experience in the emergency room …. Not for the squeamish or prudish …. Just so you know. But, hey, we’re all friends here. And if we’re not, we will be once you’ve read this post.

So there I was:

The morning after Thanksgiving.

In the emergency room.

Face down on one of those cozy hospital beds.

Wearing one of those gowns that feels like you’re wearing shame.

Because you are.

Worst of all, my Lower Bum/Upper Thigh (LBUT) was exposed. How had I come to this?

Well, you see, I had a biblical problem. A Jobian problem.

I had avoided going to the doctor for a week. I thought it was just a bug bite. Since I was in unfamiliar territory, I had been dumb enough to believe it would go away. I certainly did not want some stranger looking at my LBUT.

(You see, actually, I’m quite modest. Yet, in a seeming contradiction, I can tell the story without hesitation. My only explanation here is my life-long, sick fondness for humiliating stories — even if it is my own.)

At one point, My Beloved leered, "I can lay hands on it and pray." To which I replied, "Get away from me, you!" At Thanksgiving, my brother commented on the "hitch" in my step. I yelped as my niece bear-hugged me from behind. I was the "butt" of all the wicked holiday banter by those people I USED to call my family. Yet still, I remained stubbornly unconvinced of my need for medical intervention.

But then MB said these words: "Yeah, one cheek is definitely bigger than the other." And suddenly, there was a Tracey-shaped hole in our front door.

After I was forced to yell my problem through the glass to the unhelpful, DEAF lady, I was escorted to one of those little rooms with the soundproof curtain "walls." The nurse muttered, "Put this on." I glanced at the threadbare gown, shuddered as I thought of its previous occupants, and wondered briefly if they could just cut a hole in my pants instead. I almost said that out loud, but stopped when I saw the nurse glaring at my hesitation. Meanwhile, MB was sipping coffee — sipping coffee — in this, my hour of darkest need. "Nice. All he needs is a lovely scone," I thought.

As I waited face down on the bed, I thought of many things: of how I’m afraid of doctors and nurses — of how hospital curtains are always made from those ghastly fabrics that no one else wants — of how I longed for some cute, designer paper bag to hide my face — then how, if said designer bags just had some eye holes added, it might actually be a viable product which could be called "Hippocrates’ Helmets" or "Sickroom Sombreros" or maybe just "Hats To Hide The Shame Of It All."

The curtain was yanked aside. My reverie was abruptly interrupted.

"Hello, there." Great. A low voice. A male doctor. Or else a female doctor undergoing sex-change procedures. Either way, I felt sick, but I was kind of wishing for the latter. I took one last breath of hospital sheets and turned my head towards my doom.

"I’m Dr. Chang. How are you?" Rats. Wish denied. Regular man.

("Well, I’m just bloody fantastic" is what I thought.)

But what I said to try to break the tension was, "Did you all draw straws to see who would get me?"

"No," he said, with a face that screamed "yes."

"Well, let’s take a look."

(Oh, please, do. Let’s.)

I felt the cold hospital air on my LBUT. I tried unsuccessfully to smother myself on the bed.

“Ohhhhh, yessss. THAT is an obli.”

(See how I’ve cleverly scrambled the letters? I just CANNOT say the word, so "obli" it is.)

He then launched into some rambling discourse about the history of oblies, which I found neither interesting or helpful. Finally, he said something that was more about meeeeee.

"We’ll have to make an incision." Then he said these non-calming words: "You need to try to remain calm."

What?! How bad was this going to be that it was likely to induce hysteria? I was instantly less calm. And kind of offended that he thought perhaps I was the hysterical type.

"I’ll be back," he said.

(Oh, great. Hooray for Everything.)

As I lay there waiting, listening to My Beloved having a Taster’s Choice moment, multiple paranoias came rushing in on the hospital breeze. Impossible to verbalize them all, this one came front and center and out of my mouth:

"How does my butt look in this light?"

I ACTUALLY said this. I’m really the most appalling moron.

My Beloved stopped sipping and stared at me as if I’d finally completely cracked. Watching him, I could see many thoughts struggling for dominance.

Apparently, this thought won:

"Well, hon, believe me. That thing is the star of this show."

(And since I’ve sat a bit too long writing in a drug-induced stupor, I’ve gotta pick this up later. Dr. Chang wants to see me again first thing in the morning. My heart’s all aflutter. Stay tuned …. for the rest of the story.)

the end times (aside):

Hmmmm …. Stood up by Dr. Chang for early morning date. Must not have been as captivating as thought myself to be. LBUT peered at by yet another random stranger posing as doctor. Had My Beloved draw smiley face on LBUT bandages to spread holiday cheer. Doctor was not cheered, just patronizingly amused. (Didn’t like doctor.) Thought of saying I did it myself to increase chance of cheer occurring. Situation: still humiliating, slightly less amusing. Infection not responding to meds …. gaining some ground. Feeling a tad worse. Beastly obli. However, this bonus: MB speedily supplying videos and DVDs for plague girl’s entertainment. Have repeatedly watched The Cowardly Lion sing “If I Were King of the F-o-r-r-e-e-e-s-t.” Never seen the classic “The Postman Always Rings Twice,” so MB popped that in. Apparently, still haven’t seen it. Fell asleep. Seems the postman always rings twice, but the sandman only rings once. Having “Retro Bedtime Night” and going to bed now. It’s 7:45.

Sigh …. well, I DID love 3rd grade.

the end times, part 2:

Well, last weekend officially became "The Lost Weekend." In that movie classic, Ray Milland goes on a rather unproductive 4-day drunk. I wasn’t drunk, but kind of wish I drank, so I could have been drunk. Make sense?

Anyway …. Back to our story. Part 1 had ended with my query of shining stupidity and paranoia, followed by MB’s even shinier, clever rejoinder. I did laugh, then cringed as I heard the low rumble of laughter from "The Lady with the Elbow Problem" in the next curtain. (What?! These curtains aren’t soundproof?) As she chuckled, I pictured my hand slyly slipping through the crack in the curtains and just giving her, you know, a little slappy slap. Hmmm. Could these thoughts of mild violence have anything at all to do with the fact that my dignity and privacy were being robbed by The Man?!

Sorry, that’s a tad unseemly of me.

Seconds later, a nurse entered our personal paradise, pushing The Cart. The Cart, as most of you know, is the subtle showcase for the tools of torture that will be featured in your all-too-near future. Swept up by the sadomasochistic glee of it all, I craned my head around for a peep, but saw only various potions that looked both stinky and sting-y. Turning away, I redoubled my efforts to "remain calm," as per Dr. Chang’s extra helpful advice. The curtains parted and the doctor entered again.

"Guess what?" I asked.

"What?" he said, with good, doctorly concern.

"Well" — I replied, in an "I-see-dead-people" whisper — "it’s still there."

(I don’t know WHY I do stuff like this. To break the tension, I guess, but I need to STOP, because I ALWAYS shoot for clever and end up with STUPID. I guess I was lucky that the doctor responded with any sound, even if it was a braying-like sound, which could have been a laugh. Or sinuses. I don’t know.)

He began to busy himself with The Cart. The obli was doused with the aforementioned stinky and sting-y potions. As I lay there, chewing pillow, Dr. Chang said, "Okay. Don’t look."

Now, please. What is the absolute, categorical rule whenever someone says, "Don’t look"? You look. What else IS "don’t look" except an invitation TO look? So naturally, I succumbed to irresistible impulse and …. I looked.

SWEET MOTHER OF MOSES.

In his hand was what doctor types call a syringe. I call it a GIANT, BUTT-KEBOB SKEWER.

"You looked!" he wailed. Yeah. And I was still looking. Bug-eyed. Coffee-sipping husband, bug-eyed. The doctor began to talk very fast.

"Okay. First, we need to numb the area, then make the incision, then …."

Blah, blah, blahdie BLAH …. all right, already. JUST. DO. IT.

His nervousness was sending mine over the edge.

"…. and I want you to know there’s going to be water involved."

Right. Because that IS the concern here, that water might be involved. I love a doctor who can sense my innermost fears.

Finally, the moment had come. He looked at me and said, "Are you ready? There’s going to be some pain." (Let’s not forget water.)

"You might want to take a deep breath and go to a happy place." I thought he was kidding with that, but he was quite in earnest.

Okay, playing along. A deep breath …. a "happy place" …. A Land Without Oblies …. help me, Jesus ….

"Heaven?" I croaked out.

"Suuure, whatever," Dr. Chang laughed. "Okay. Deep breath. Here we go."

(Heaven, heaven, heaven, hea-vennn)

YEEEEE-OOOOOWWWWW!!!!

The offending obli was skewered dead center. All visions of heaven exploded as I descended into a fiery, butt-kebobbing HELL.

Now, during the approximately 30 seconds of skewering, several things happened:

First, and fleetingly, I thought maybe this was payback for calling my husband "Burl Hives" a few years ago when his skin turned reddish and blotchy and he did, indeed, have hives. I felt quite sorrowful about this now.

Second, a voice came to me from behind the doctor’s back: "How ya doin’, hon?" Are you kidding me?! It was that dratted Burl Hives. Daring to speak to me. At this precise moment. In That Voice. You know. That fakey, lovey voice that husbands whip out at ill-timed moments to assure us of their undying support and adoration. (Hmmm …. I’m touched, Burl…. that you took the time to care between your sips of coffee!) You KNOW. That Voice that gives normal women the murderous thoughts of a mafioso: "Oh, yeah? You tawkin’ to me, Slappy? Yeah? You goin’ down. I don’t cayeh how big you ahh. When I’m done heeya, I’m stawtin’ wichyoo."

Then, third, Elbow Lady’s cell phone started ringing …. and ringing …. and ringing. And not a normal ring, either. Oh, no. It was that tinny, cell-phony version of Beethoven’s "Fur Elise": Nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-REE-REE-REE. The tune that is the bane of many a young, pudgy-fingered pianist. Instantly, I flashed back many years to my own wildly unsuccessful 8-year-old piano recital — the one where I sat there, pudgy-fingered and crimson-faced, as my unruly digits sabotaged me by playing the opening strains of "Fur Elise" over and over and over again. Ah, yes. The recital where, mid-performance, I heard my dad’s tape recorder ominously click OFF. Well, let’s face it, two minutes of the same five seconds over and over? There was only so much I could bless people with my repetitive gift.

Now thus far, I had not screamed. But, oh, mommy, I wanted to. However, I think screaming in hospitals is no good for anyone — no good for me, no good for the doctor skewering me, and no good for anyone still waiting their turn to be skewered. But Elbow Lady and her "Fur Elise" cell phone were driving me to the brink. I felt seconds away from bellowing one of those self-serving "words from the Lord" that everyone’s so gaga for these days: "Elbow Lady, I FEEL the Lord is telling ME to tell YOU to answer your freaking cell phone! It’s driving Him crazy!! " (And you know …. the ringing did stop. Maybe it really did drive Him crazy.)

So where are we? Ringing: Stopped. Butt Kebobbing: Stopped. LBUT: Numb. Incision: Imminent. It was then I discovered the one — and I mean only one — advantage of the LBUT obli: I couldn’t see what happened next. Dratted Burl Hives described the gruesome entertainment factor for me as “pure CSI.” Wow. Really? I felt strangely proud of my obli then. Later on, though, he mused, suddenly all-knowing, "I really thought the incision was too big."

Hmmm. Didn’t really want to know that, so I drily replied, "In your expert opinion because your mom’s a nurse?" He scowled at me. I deserved it.

"Procedure" over, the bandaging began. It seemed alarmingly poofy. My Beloved, pleased with himself, remarked, "Your ass looks like it’s packed for international shipping."

I thought momentarily how I’d miss him after I killed him.

It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Doctor gone, I reached back and gingerly felt the area. Was this a joke? My husband’s comment was actually an understatement. It seemed as if that maniac Dr. Chang had just gone to the nursery, grabbed a stack of folded Huggies, and slapped them to my butt cheek. I was aghast.

With MB’s help, I wobbled up and put on my baggy pants. Baggy, that is, except across my beleaguered, be-Huggied butt cheek, where the pants’ worn fibers strained to hold me in. Dressed, I looked like some poor woman who forgot the dryer sheets and now had her husband’s entire sock drawer statically clinging inside her pants’ arse. My bum was lumpen, distorted, misshapen — a walking nightmare. I wanted to cry. Once again, I longed for A Hat To Hide The Shame Of It All. I glanced at My Beloved and wondered if he did, too.

Moments later, I was waddling out to the car. My Beloved shortened his long stride, grabbed my hand, and waddled with me. I stared glumly down at the large plastic bag the nurse had given me. Ah, my lovely parting gifts: a year’s supply of bandaging and tape, voluminous care instructions, including a tutorial on weatherstripping the area for showering, and lots of painkillers. I rummaged in the bag a bit, certain there’d be some Rice-a-Roni or at least a lousy lollipop. Nope. I sighed.

Then My Beloved said in his real voice, "Well, baby. You were a brave little soldier." I smiled and stopped next to the car. My swaddled keister stopped a couple seconds later.

Just then, I felt a lovely, warming glow. And it wasn’t just from the burning of my LBUT. But as My Beloved opened the car door, he said it:

"Let me help you in …. Olive Boil."

(Cue "Psycho" shower music)

All right, Burl Hives. GAME ON.