beyond the pale

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.

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 do this to break the tension. I don’t know WHY I do it, 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.

"…. 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, Lord ….

"Heaven?" I croaked out.

"Suuure," 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 at once:

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.

So my mom called a few weeks ago to ask me to bring dessert for Thanksgiving:

Mom: Bring that thing you made a few years ago.

Me: What thing?

Mom: Hmm … well, it was good.

Me: Okaaay. What was it?

Mom: Well, I thought YOU’D remember.

Me: Hmm. Well, Mom, I just have no idea …… how do you remember it but you don’t remember what it WAS?

Mom: Well, how could you make something you don’t remember?

Which one of us was Costello in this roundy-round conversation??

Mom: Just bring the thing. You’ll figure it out. Bye.

Right.

What the heck was “THE THING”?

I ruminated. I asked my siblings. I scoured my cookbooks. Pointless. Nothing jumped out as “THE THING.” (And, let’s face it, how good could it have been if no one even remembered it?) I was definitely becoming stressed. Finally, My Beloved spoke the soul-stirring, freedom-giving words, “Why are you trying to remember something that no one else remembers? Just make a new ‘thing.'”

As I looked at MB, glowing like that angel from that stupid angel show, the dessert-darkened clouds in my mind lifted and the spirit of Betty Crocker spoke to me, echoing MB’s words of liberty: “Make a new ‘thing.'”

I was, indeed, “Touched by an Angel.”

So … onto the new “thing.” What to make? I ruminated. I asked my siblings. I scoured my cookbooks. Nothing. The angel glow faded and MB looked eerily human again. Finally, yesterday afternoon, I resorted to searching online for something … anything. I soon discovered blessed salvation in the form of a recipe for “Black-Bottom Chocolate Cream Pie.” It all seemed so simple. Chocolate cookie crust. Chocolate cream filling. And topping. Creamy, homemade, chocolate deliciousness. Anyone could do it.

So last night was a quaint scene of cheery holiday baking. Everything was going fine. Frankly, I thought I was doing an excellent job. Chocolate cream filling completed, I began the traditional taste tests. Hmmm …. it seemed just …. okay-ish.

I thought the cream filling was not living up to its creamy potential.

I thought the cream filling could be richer.

I thought the cream filling could taste better.

And, clearly, I thought I was the one to fix it. My heart swelled. My mission was clear.

Certain that my baking prowess could save this pie, I began adding a little of this, a pinch of that, too much of something else. I was mad with power and high on chocolate. I glanced at my reflection in the window and startled at the chocolate-covered person staring back at me. But, undeterred, I kept creating. I had become …. the pie god.

And you know, even after I knew I had killed it, I kept going, like a doctor trying to revive a long-gone patient until someone finally takes the paddles away. Beholding this trauma scene, My Beloved surveyed the damage, approached me, and gently but firmly took away my spoons. “Let it go,” he urged. I looked down at my dead pie. It was jiggly, pathetic, and pale in death, the sickly color of a MacDonald’s chocolate milkshake. No death with dignity for this confection. It suddenly dawned on me that I had spent that extra 45 minutes to create …. Jello. Jello, which takes 5 minutes to make. Jello, which comes in convenient Snak-Paks in the grocery store aisle and tastes much better than my homemade pie of death. Right now, my poor pie sits in the fridge, mournfully awaiting proper burial. Somewhere, Bill Cosby is laughing, scooping his damn JELL-O in dainty spoonfuls.

Shaddup, Bill. Your sweaters suck.

And in my oven as I write this post is Dessert No. 2: “Caramel Apple Spice Cake.”

My NEW new thing. Hope I don’t kill it, too.

(Anyway …. have a Happy Thanksgiving, all!)

Yeah. After my “chuck k.” post I said I’d include some of his stuff on Christians and “Left Behind” in my next post. Obviously, I didn’t do that. I also said I’d come back to the whole demon hubbub. I AM going to do both those things. The demon thing is long — still processing. (If I could get past the “demons,” perhaps I could process it faster …. he he he …)

For anyone concerned, I guess you could pray — hmm, what? — that God would “BIND the demons” (see previous post) so that I could think more clearly?

(But if my pants get tighter, I’m coming after you.)

Disclaimer: In this post, I refer to a nickname that I conferred upon a total stranger during a weird interlude. I have a habit of doing this with weird interlude strangers because if my husband and I ever speak of the weird interlude again, we can use that name, and the person and incident are instantly recognizable. This is quicker than launching into a lengthy, meandering description to jog the memory such as, “Remember that surly clerk at Target who spoke in a monotone and took 15 minutes to check out our 3 items, then dropped and broke one of them and didn’t call for assistance, but made YOU go back and get a replacement?” Now see, that’s just time consuming. It’s simply easier to say, “Remember Baron von Breakenstein?”

Now, maybe you’re saying, “Wait a minute, Missy MacNickname, is this what Jesus would do?” To which I reply, “Probably not … however, Jesus knows all our names.” (But to myself I sheepishly think, “Actually, I have a certain level of guilt about this habit — that maybe it’s not the most Christ-like thing to do, that maybe I shouldn’t describe that Target guy as ‘Baron von Breakenstein’ but rather, as ‘that guy who was just having a really bad day,’ but that I enjoy doing it, but also, that I should probably give this questionable habit over to the Lord, and that I really will ….. once I’m done with this post.” There. Hollow confession over. On to the actual post:

Okay. I admit it. When I’m out in public, I’m a notorious eavesdropper. (Sadly, another bad habit.) Restaurants are my preferred location for this teensy-weensy social crime because, if you’re lucky, your eavesdropping victims hang around for a while. This past weekend, I struck again during our regular Saturday morning breakfast. (In my defense, my victim was quite loud, begging the question of who, really, was the true victim here?) The four people at the next table were Christians engaged in an energetic discussion about the election. My plans that morning did not originally include eavesdropping. Honestly. I just wanted to eat my waffle. But the conversation was noisily served up to me along with the coffee, so what choice did I have? Clearly, I was forced. Here’s what one of the people — that would be “Princess
Pancake” — said:

“We just kept praying and asking God to BIND SATAN because the early exit polls were showing Kerry in the lead. But at the end of the night, I was just saying, ‘praise God, praise God,’ because the ENEMY WAS BOUND and Bush had won.”

What?! I nearly did a spit-take with my coffee, which, as movies have taught us, most people don’t care for. Still, I sat there, surprised, with my mouth hanging open long enough that my beloved remarked, “Peaches, if you put some food in there, it might close.” (I scowled at him and briefly wondered whether PRE-MEDITATED spousal spit-takes are wrong. The Bible IS silent on that, you know. Ultimately, I chose not to spit-take because, well, I’m lazy and I didn’t want the job of spit-take spot removal. Excellent. I could be both righteous AND practical.)

Back to the overheard comment. What’s going on here? It seems to be either:

a) Bad theology — “Satan is John Kerry voters” … or

b) Bad political ideology — “John Kerry voters are Satan” … or

c) Both of the above

So based on Princess Pancake’s comments and given the outcome of the election, can we now surmise that “Satan” has been bound? Whew … that’s a relief. (Although, inexplicably, I HAVE seen many Kerry voters in my true “blue” neighborhood walking about unfettered. And I could have sworn that when Mr. Kerry gave his concession speech, he was neither chained nor straitjacketed. Hmmm. Maybe it’s binding by “appointment only.” Or maybe their pants just get tighter. I don’t know.) I’m not sure that Christians even know what they mean when they say this, so I imagine that any non-Christians and/or Kerry voters within earshot could certainly feel confused or angered or alienated by it. Or all of the above.

I don’t know about you, but I think notions like Princess Pancake’s are just a wee bit rash and, frankly, dumb. (I’m not saying SHE’S dumb; I think the idea is.) Do we really want to suggest, “I’m in this corner with Bush and God, but you’re in that corner with Kerry and … Satan?!” I hope not. Notions like these help foster our current “red state/ blue state” post-election frenzy. They serve society’s stereotype that Christians are narrow, judgmental, self-satisfied non-thinkers. I know many deeply committed Christians who aren’t conservative Republicans. They don’t consort with minions of the devil. They don’t need to be “bound.” And they aren’t skipping blithely — and “blue”ly — to their ultimate doom.

Shouldn’t the truth of the gospel be the only offense we’re proclaiming?

As I write this post, I’m compulsively eating one of the best candies in the world: Smarties. What makes these little things so darn good? Is it the color? The shape? The tartness? The packaging that makes you feel like you’re opening a present? Or do they taste even better because they were given to me by my 4-year-old niece, Piper, out of her personal, prized Halloween stash?

“Here, Tee Tee. I want you to hab dese.”

That must be it.

Anyway, I’ve been reading the pop culture essays of Chuck Klosterman from his book, “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.” So this guy is funny, obsessive … and provocative. Here’s a sample, skewering the youth soccer culture:

“The truth is that most children don’t love soccer; they simply hate the alternative more. For 60 percent of the adolescents in any fourth-grade classroom, sports are a humiliation waiting to happen. These are the kids who play baseball and strike out four times a game. These are the kids who are afraid to get fouled in basketball, because it only means they’re now required to shoot two free throws, which equates to two air balls. Basketball games actually STOP to recognize their failure. And football is nothing more than an ironical death sentence; somehow, outcasts find themselves in a situation where the people normally penalized for teasing them are suddenly urged to annihilate them.

“This is why soccer seems like such a respite from all that mortification; it’s the one aerobic activity where nothingness is expected. Even at the highest levels, every soccer match seems to end 1-0 or 2-1. A normal 11 year old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and nobody would even notice, assuming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions.”

So that was just the introduction, the warm-up, if you will. In my next post, I’ll excerpt from his essay on … Christians and the “Left Behind” phenomenon.

I’m still gathering my thoughts on this topic, believe me. Once I’m more “gathered,” I’m coming back to this …. oh, yes … definitely coming back.

So if you read my last post, you’d know that today I’m happy and relieved that George W. Bush has won re-election. I even breathed a “Thank you, God” prayer once it was officially over. Then I caught myself. Am I just thankful that “my guy” won? (Well, I AM thankful.) But would I have been thankful had “not my guy” won? Hmmm … (Knowing me, well — I’m not gonna answer that question!) I know God is sovereign. He’s in control of all things, including elections. My thankfulness in Him, my love for Him, shouldn’t be circumstantial or conditional, but oh, how often it is!

I remember many times as a young girl pining breathlessly away for some poor, random boy. He was always, of course, “sooooo cute” and we were always, of course, going to be “together 4ever.” (How did I know that? Because, silly, it was only written ALL over my notebook — along with his name … or my name with his LAST name … or our names TOGETHER.) It was only a matter of time before this hapless boy — who knew NOTHING of my undying love (or me, for that matter) — would drop to his knees and make me his. My fevered, foolish brain was overcome with having found eternal bliss — apparently, at the ripe old age of 11. But the true test of this idiotic love was the daisy game. If I grabbed the nearest daisy, played the petals just right, and “he loved me,” well, girl, call the caterer and order the invitations.

I can safely say it’s been many (okay, several) years since I last “played the daisies,” gambling my “ENTIRE LIFE’S HAPPINESS, MOTHER!” on the pluck of a petal. Thinking of that, I wince at the irredeemable dope I was and consider how lucky I am to have outgrown all that frivolousness. Right? Because then I catch myself. Even now, how often do I “play the daisies” with my love for the Lord? How often have I allowed circumstances to dictate whether I “love Him” or “love Him not”? Worse still, how often have I accused the Lord of playing the daisies with His love for me? Circumstances good? Well, clearly, “He loves me.” Circumstances bad? Well, clearly, “He loves me not.” I need to grow more deeply, more fully, into the knowledge that God is NEVER fickle, but I often am; that God is NEVER faithless, but I often am.

Lord, I don’t want a heart that “plays the daisies.”

Give me a heart that’s more constant.

Give me a heart that’s more true.

(ed.: This is the first post from my first blog called, yes, “Worship Naked.” Please remain calm.)

Uhh … yeah… about that.

Some of you might be here because the word “worship” caught your eye. Some of you might be here because the word “naked” caught your eye — and having looked around and seen nothing (or no one) naked, you’re now feeling a tad ripped off. Well, stick around — or how else will you discover that you’re not a tad ripped off, you’re FULLY ripped off, in one sense only.

So … my heart’s desire with this weblog is to talk about life in Jesus Christ. (And perhaps I just heard screaming and the pounding of feet as the naked people have officially fled.)

Look, I freely admit that I’m a born-again Christian. I’m also a phony, a poser, a hypocrite — in biblical terms, a Pharisee. And I’m tired of it. One day, I was reading the story in 2 Samuel 6 and was struck by the verse that’s become the tag line for this page: “David danced before the Lord with all his might.” This guy was the king of Israel . In a moment of sheer joy and celebration, he unashamedly, unabashedly DANCED before the Lord and basically the whole darn town. He worshiped naked.

Now he WAS dressed rather skimpily for a king, but the idea of “worship naked” isn’t about naked bodies. It’s about naked hearts. It’s about being stripped bare. Emotionally. Spiritually. Stripped of personal mythologies, pretenses, facades and loving God with ALL. To worship naked is to wholeheartedly believe, not just halfheartedly behave. To worship naked is to be the beggar at the door amazed, grateful, changed when the Master takes you in and makes you His child. So no, we won’t be out in the woods cavorting naked; we’ll be on our knees crying, “Search me, O God.”

I realize this is a pebble dropped in the ocean, but I’ll still stand on the shore and say, “Hey, who wants to come?” You never know.