I’m losing posts again. There was a post here last night, and now it’s gone.
Uhm, stand by.
i don’t mean to be all mushy and whatnot
But this “whistling” puppy is the tiniest cutest thing in the whole wide world.
And it’s not just my opinion. This is empirically true. Obviously.
(Look at his little triangle mouth!)
Okay. Fine. I’m mushy today. Earlier, while the rain pounded against the windows, I curled up in a chair, ate cinnamon toast, and watched the end of Benji: The Hunted.
Benji: The Hunted, pippa!
But, please note, that’s Benji COLON The Hunted.
And, you know, I think the colon redeems it as a slightly more matter of fact, less mushy choice.
At least, this is what I choose to tell myself.
sentence of the day
He has terrible oral hygiene, with only one half of two teeth in his bottom.
Yes, I know what is meant here, but as phrased, well, this sounds like something quite different from an oral hygiene problem, doesn’t it? I mean, guess what, Peaches? I have exactly no halves of no teeth in my personal “bottom.”
Uhm, thank God.
Note to the peoples of the world: Please keep your tooth halves out of my bottom. Thank you.
Just think, pippa. Whenever you’re feeling sad, angry, homicidal, like you just can’t go on, whatever, you can hit your knees and thank the Lord above that you have exactly no halves of no teeth in your personal bottom.
Unless you do. And then I really don’t want to know about it.
What you do in the privacy of your own home is absolutely none of my business.
oasis
I want to publicly thank dear blog friend Brian for sending me some books that have made all the difference the last couple of months as I’ve processed Ye Olde Churche Debacle. No, I’m not done processing. I’m slow on these things. I overanalyze; ask too many questions that probably don’t have answers. Or at least satisfactory answers. I know I haven’t finished telling the story and I intend to. I probably need to.
But in the midst of all this, dear Brian offered to send me some books that had made an impact on him and they sounded so great, so spot-on for where I’m at right now spiritually, that I said yes, yes, yes, and literally DEVOURED them all when they got here. I read all three of them so quickly and, uh, maniacally that I’m now going back and re-reading them ….. slowly, deliberately. Like, Calm down, Trace. Maybe take a Xanax before you read, mkay?
I wish I could adequately describe them all right now — the impact they’ve had on me, how they’ve completely changed how I now consider issues of faith and church — but I can’t quite, not yet. I just wanted Brian to know that not only did I get the books, I read each one and am re-reading them because I need to. I WANT to. I know when I give books to someone, I love to hear that they’ve actually been read, that they aren’t just sitting on a shelf — so that’s why this is here, too.
So Brian, thank you, thank you, thank you. These three books have been a kind of spiritual oasis to me in the last couple of months. It means the world to me that you did that. Thank you again.
god is annoying
Sometimes, God really annoys me. He asks me to do stuff that I don’t want to do and, frankly, it’s annoying. But he pesters you until you do it. Yeah, that’s it: God’s a real pest and I intend to talk to him about it some day if I ever stop peeing my pants in his presence. And on a side note: If I’m pants-less in heaven — as in naked — I will totally lose it and run around wailing and shrieking, I swear.
But recently, this annoying God asked me to do something anonymously for someone who has really betrayed me and, you know, it cost me — emotionally and financially. I don’t say this to say Oh, lookie me, I’m so great. Actually, I say this to say I very well may be the stupidest person I know and I know some pretty stupid people.
Several years ago, God asked this exact thing from me with a different cast of characters and I did it then, too, for months until he said to stop, and, frankly, for a long time, I felt foolish and stupid and it hurt. I cried myself to sleep over how much I did not want to do it. I felt like God was asking me to be a chump and I’m cool, not a chump, right? That argument didn’t really work on him. Before I complied, I would lie in bed and beg and beg to be let off the hook: Please, please, ask me something else, God. Ask me to walk down the street naked — which I’d rather die than do — but I know I will really die if I do this, so why don’t you just cut to the chase and kill me? Or …. how about that naked thing? No?
Because, you see, God, that pest, was asking me to bless those who curse me, you know, as the Good Book says. And now that I think about it, before I go to bed tonight, I think I’m going to cross that part out of my Bible posthaste because it’s caused me no end of trouble.
Still, it won’t change the fact that it really does say that and that, if you think about it or actually do it, it will truly and deeply chap your hide. You know, I tried to talk God into letting me toss some prayers his way about the person who’d wronged me, prayers that I’d say with verve! and gusto! to disguise the fact that I meant nary a word: “God, I will totally pray for this person. I will. IwillIwillIwillIwill I WILL.”
No, you won’t, Tracey.
Wha?? God can see through me?? Drat that omniscience anyway.
So I wheedled and begged and begged and wheedled and God just laughed, I suppose. I’m pretty sure I amuse him a lot.
The thing is, praying is fine. We’re supposed to pray for people, love our enemies, all that, but God knows me and knows I WON’T DO IT. If it’s some kind of mental/spiritual ritual, something slippery or vaporous, he knows: I WON’T DO IT. Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, if it’s about someone I love, someone I care about who’s hurting or sad or betrayed, I’m there. I’ll do it, no problem. I’ll WANT to do it. But if it’s about someone who’s hurt me? Wronged me? Fuggedaboudit. Again, God knows: I WON’T DO IT. It’s too easy to say I’ll pray for that scum, that ass, that douche — none of which I ever say, of course — and then, uh-oh! poof! the notion just disappears into thin air. I WON’T DO IT because my heart is hard. Because I’m hurt. Because I’m clothed in my own righteousness and don’t I look nice? Because not doing it is easy-peasy.
So, with me, God pesters and pesters and pesters while I’m trying to sleep or watch TV. I know he knows I need sleep — I mean, sleep, hullo, his idea — but sometimes he doesn’t seem to CARE that I need to sleep or, well, watch House. I’ll bet even God watches House. But nope. He seems to really delight in waking me up in the dead of night or interrupting my ogling of Hugh Laurie and asking me to be proactive. Thoughts, prayers — good, but, let’s be honest: a quiet prayer sent heavenward costs a person nothing. I can pray in my head and not be embarrassed, not feel foolish, not feel mortified — I can even pray NAKED and not be mortified — and sometimes, God is fine with that, but again, with me, when I’m hurt or betrayed and jumping on the speeding train to Bitter Town, God asks something else of me: I have to DO something. Not think something. DO something.
Bless those who curse you, Tracey.
Ugh. It’s a real pisser, I’ll be honest.
Again, I’d much rather lie there in bed like some Posturepedic pope whispering, I bless thee, I bless thee, I bless thee and then drift off into the divine dreamless sleep I richly deserve. It’s easy to just SAY it. But doing it?
Ugh. It’s a real pisser, I’ll be honest.
The first time I did this, several years ago, I sent coffee gift cards, anonymously, to the person who had “cursed me” — because the person was a huge coffee freak and because God said, “Send the jerk some coffee cards” or, well, maybe not quite like that. I thought I would only do it once and be done with it. When I reached the mailbox and was about to put the envelope in, I paused, then walked away, muttering, Nope. I can’t do this, God, no way.
Go back, Tracey.
I turned, stepped one step toward the mailbox, then turned back away. This was on a public sidewalk now, this insane back and forth.
No. I don’t want to bless this person. I don’t want to give this.
I know. So then … can you give it to me?
Ah, crap. Are you kidding? Good one.
Yep.
I turned, stomped back to the mailbox, and shoved the stupid “blessing” in, overflowing with Christian love.
And the angels rejoiced!
Walking back to my car, I thought, Phhhew, thank God, that’s over.
It’s not over, Tracey.
Eh? Yes, it is. I mailed it.
You did, but you’re not done.
Oh, seriously?
Yep.
Okaay. Uhm, what now?
You’re going to do it again next month.
No way! That totally sucks.
That’s why you need to keep doing it. Until it doesn’t suck.
Ohh, pippa. It sucked for seven long months.
Because I didn’t get it and I didn’t get it.
I didn’t get just how bitter I was becoming about this person and I didn’t get that God’s prescription for my bitterness, for “the curse” I’d received was its counterpoint, its total opposite: a blessing. God’s prescription was something that cost me, emotionally much more than financially, something that felt like a curse itself, but was actually something other altogether.
Because as time went on, the ritual at the mailbox became easier. Each month that passed, I had shorter debates with God, I felt less huffy, I looked less like a free-range demented person, mumbling and stomping around a mailbox, and more like a regular person mailing a simple letter, no biggie.
Except it was a biggie, because with each month, I felt my heart, that looming glacier of bitterness, melt just the tiniest bit towards this person. The tiniest bit.
There was no excuse for what this person had done to me. It wasn’t a “hurt feelings” issue; it was, by anyone’s account, a wrong, an abusive wrong. God wasn’t asking me to do this to gloss over what the person had done and act like la di dah, it was no big deal. That wasn’t it at all. It was a huge deal, God knew that, I believe, and because he knew that, he knew the basic human potential for bitterness to take root in a wounded heart. My heart. We’re all just human, for God’s sake, and God knows that. And because he knew this person wouldn’t reconcile with me, he knew my heart well enough to know the only choice it would feel it could make in the face of such blithe abusiveness would be bitterness and thoughts of revenge. And because he actually does love me, he wouldn’t let me go there. Or rather, he wouldn’t let me stay there. (I had already gone there all by myself, ahem.) It took me seven months to feel free and to realize, too, that it was for ME that God had asked me to do this. Sure, that person got those gift cards, but that whole thing — a project MB dubbed “Blessings for Butthead” — was about me, actually. My heart, my spirit, my bitterness, and how to start to be free of it.
And now, he’s asking this of me again.
And it’s a real pisser, I’ll be honest.
But much less so this time around. And not because it’s some small thing or my feelings were merely hurt or because I feel less angry or betrayed with this situation. Actually, it’s worse than the first time — how it’s all hit me. Much worse.
This time is easier maybe, just maybe, because my heart’s kneejerk bitterness has been slowed, delayed, because of that time, several years ago, when God, that pest, told me to bless those who curse you.
I don’t know how long it will last this time around. I have a feeling it’s not done.
Because, let’s face it, God is just annoying sometimes.
oh, sweet baby jesus
There’s one of these PSAs for Christmas, too, but it’s not quite as hilariously horrifying as this Hanukkah one.
Followup Public Service Announcement to the Public Service Announcement:
Men:
Wanna do something special for your woman this Hanukkah/Christmas? Schedule her Pap smear — then just sit back and wait for the divorce papers/Dear John letter to come in the mail!
I mean, listen, any hopeless idiot who might actually consider this: Your woman’s fondest holiday wish does NOT include a stocking stuffed with an appointment card for her fancy place to have a “schmear” with Dr. McFiddles, mkay? The real Public Service Announcement here is this: On behalf of every damn woman in the world, I dare to beseech you NOT to do this. No. I DEMAND that you don’t.
I mean, seriously, sweet baby Jesus see this and weeps inconsolably in the manger. And he’s GOD, for God’s sake.
And “Give her the gift that will light up her menorah”?
Gross, gross, gross, gross, GROSS.
Clearly, the people at CBS understand neither women NOR how Pap smears work. I think I can confidently tell you, CBS, that NO Pap “schmear” has ever EVER lit up my menorah.
And my gynecologist is a good-looking fellow, too.
snippet
HE: He was probably all ‘She’s not godly enough for me to have an affair with.’
ME: Hahaha, true.
deception pass, whidbey island, wa
Oh, memories, memories, memories.
Mostly of the fear of how high that bridge is and how, uhm, roiling that water is.
sourface lemonpants
So we were up in the deep dark middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving, where tortoises while away the winter clawing hopelessly in drawers, etc.
(Oh, wait. Update on that: The tortoises — yes, there are now two — are in separate boxes in the closet. They are, ahem, too BIG to fit in the dresser drawers anymore. And, you know, I have mixed feelings about this: First, I’m relieved that hibernating torti are no longer clawing about all stump-like amongst anyone’s delicate underthings. Although, second, I’m concerned about just how large these critters will get and how that might negatively impact meee. I can imagine some Incredible Hulk Tortoise scenario where they fly (uhm, plod?) into a murderous rage one night and pop all gigantic out of their shells whilst I’m fitfully sleeping mere feet away, and, oh! the slow havoc they will wreak upon me in the deep dark middle of nowhere! And just how big is too big for a tortoise or any other such creeping reptilian creature? Shouldn’t they be soup by now? Just think of all that yummy soup crammed carelessly in a box in the closet for six months of every year. Well, okay, you don’t HAVE to think about it, but I sure do. All the time. Especially when the clawing happens. Oh, Lordy, yes, especially then.)
For Thanksgiving dinner, we went to my in-laws’ friends’ house. At their home, I met this lady, a friend of the friends, and for whatever reason, she seemed to develop an instant white-hot hate for me. I’m a polarizing figure, pippa; it’s true. Generally, I have found that people either like me or HAAATE me with not much middle ground. I don’t know why. Well, actually, I have some theories, but who really cares? I’m a polarizing monster is the point I’m trying to make here.
So this lady — let’s randomly call her Sourface Lemonpants — brought all the appetizers and set them up on a side table. She had crackers and cheeses and cheese spreads and all the spreads were in these little jars with tiny toothpick signs detailing what they were, so you’d know which one contained the deadly poison, is what I think now, in retrospect. I loitered around this table, gorging, ignorant of the imminent white-hot hate and thinking, “Wow. How adorable and pretty this all is, mm-mmm, yummy, blahdie blah blah.” Just thinking the best of people, as I am wont to do.
I turned to Sourface Lemonpants, who at that point was just “a human lady,” and said, “Wow. I love this lemon ginger cheese spread. And it’s all so pretty. You’re like Martha Stewart!”
She turned to me and, yamahama, I tell you true, her eyes were like blazing red lasers of death. She did not say a word, not one word, as she tried to bore her crimson gaze into my hapless skull.
Basically, she had a sudden and total RED ASS for me, pippa, and, well, owie, owie, owie.
I spoke fast.
“Oh, uhm, I meant it as a compliment.”
Her eyes were dead and cold. In a split second, I realized the tortoises in the drawer would look just like this when they finally club me to death with their slow stumpy legs.
“It’s not a compliment,” she said.
“But, uh, really, I meant it as a compliment. I did.”
“IT’S NOT A COMPLIMENT! MARTHA STEWART IS A SCUMBAG!”
She proceeded to detail how That Scumbag Martha Stewart was a big fat felon and WENT TO PRISON, YOU KNOW, and what’s more and even worse, pippa, did you know that That Scumbag Martha Stewart said some REALLY MEAN THINGS about Sarah Palin, aka The Virgin Mary?? She did. It’s true. Seriously, off with her head for that one. Surround it with some flowers for a nice centerpiece.
“Listen, Slappy, I’m not complimenting you on your insider trading; I’m just complimenting you on your stupid cheese spread” is what I would have said right then while showing her the door at MY house. Instead, since I was raised right and mostly try to behave in social situations, I just stared gobsmacked and open-mouthed at her while she ranted on and on and, well, as I watched her mouth move and her face become more and more puckered, that’s when she became Sourface Lemonpants. But, again, it was all very random, as you can see.
When she was finally done raving about That Scumbag Martha Stewart, I turned and bolted to the bathroom where I hugged myself and hummed Jesus Loves Me until This Chick Who’s Never Sober announced it was time to eat. She was three rooms away, but, oh, I could hear her. Oh, yes, indeedy.
Later, at the table, Sourface Lemonpants again went off, this time about the outlawing of the incandescent bulb and how we’re all going to have to use only CFLs in just a few years. (This IS true.) And, honestly, I don’t know why I did this, but I spoke up, made a random comment.
“Yeah,” I said, “and the clean-up on those is a huge pain because of the mercury content.”
Oh, dear. Oh, no. Why oh why do you speak, Trace? Why are you engaging Sourface Lemonpants? Have you forgotten the red ass? I mean, it’s sad. It really is. You have SEEN the face of the red ass, Trace, and it’s a horror and yet, yet, you still remain this hopeful idiot who believes in happy endings with crazy people.
Dumbass.
Sourface Lemonpants just looked at me with her lasers and barked, “NO, IT’S NOT! THAT IS TOTAL BULLS**T! YOU JUST READ THAT SOMEWHERE!”
I stared at her, and in my best grade school teacher voice, simply said a clipped, dismissive “all righty” and turned away from her.
Before she finally left, dragging her ex-Marine husband with her, she packed every last jar of spread and every last crumb of cracker and every last schmear of cheese into strange plastic suitcases, like a makeup artist, growling the whole time about how this “didn’t taste good” or that “was too runny” until someone would finally compliment her and she’d bite their head off.
All righty! Happy Thanksgiving!
Later that night, I had some indigestion.
And, yes, I blame Sourface Lemonpants and that lemon ginger cheese spread.
cooperation
This is my favorite sentence of the day:
“He is a somewhat chubby but cooperative boy.”
Okay. Let’s think about this. Chubbiness precludes cooperation?
Really, I think it’s important to ponder the ramifications here. I mean, what other conditions preclude cooperation, one can’t help but wonder?
“She is a somewhat incontinent but cooperative girl.”
“He is a somewhat oily but cooperative boy.”
“He is a somewhat leathery but cooperative man.”
“She is a somewhat disgusting but cooperative woman.”
I mean, really, this one sentence has opened my mind to the myriad conditions — previously unknown to me — that just may inhibit cooperation amongst the peoples. You’re having difficulty with teamwork on the job? Well, did you ever consider, pippa, that maybe, just maybe, your colleagues CANNOT cooperate because they are sweaty or stumpy or lascivious and simply cannot be called upon to be cooperative? Maybe you should think about that. Impediments loom at every turn!
And perhaps you have one or more of these roadblocks to cooperation and can now use them as excuses for being an impossible unruly ass.
You are stingy. You are myopic. You are furry.
Thank you, random sentence.
The entire world has utterly changed for me.