All posts by moonandjess@frontier.com

Grandkids, Knowing Your Limitations, and the Wayne County Fair Carnival of Death

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids
Me in one of my preferred recreational activities
Me in one of my preferred recreational activities

I’ve always prided myself on being kind of a tough guy. Not particularly strong or courageous, but tough, in the sense that I could absorb a lot of punishment and keep going. Lately, I find myself forced to rethink that. It seems that the older I get, the less tough I get, and to add insult to injury, I don’t seem to be getting any smarter in order to compensate for it.

Last friday, my wife, the fun-loving and adventurous Jess and I took our grandson, Austin, age 12, and granddaughter Sharon, age 3 1/2, to the Wayne county fair. It had already been a long day for me, covering the livestock auction for our local paper, where I’m currently employed as the world’s oldest unpaid intern. I got home that evening soaked with sweat and covered with bug bites.

We loaded the kids up and headed into town. We stopped at Clara’s Pizza King for supper, because neither Jess nor I had had anything to eat all day. This was my first tragic error in judgement for the night. Not that there was anything wrong with the food or the service, both were excellent, but it showed an astonishing lack of foresight on my part.

In choosing pizza, we failed to take into consideration my complete inability to know when to stop (and frankly, I blame Jess for this particular failure), as well as the heat at the fair, which was hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell.

Then we went to the fair. When I was a kid, I loved all the rides. The wilder the better, as far as I was concerned. Nothing ever bothered me. I saw no reason to suspect that anything had changed. We started off with Jess taking Sharon on the “Crazy Bus” kiddie ride, just to see how she would do on the rides. Austin and I got quite a few laughs, watching Jess trapped in that tiny bus with about 50 screaming little kids, going up and down in circles. Jess survived, Sharon loved it, and I had no idea how quickly I’d be getting my comeuppance.

Austin wanted to ride the “Sizzler”, one of those old classics where you’re locked into a seat and flung around in circles. Sharon was really disappointed that she wasn’t tall enough to ride. Austin still wanted to ride it, and I remembered that those rides are not nearly as much fun by yourself. When I was a kid, my little brother David and I always rode them together, and since we didn’t have any other kids with us, I decided to be a good Grandpa and ride it with him. Tragic error in judgement #2.

Like I said before, I wasn’t worried. When I was a kid, I loved those freakin’ things. David and I would ride them over and over again, waiving our hands in the air, and trying to find ways to make them even worse. I thought, “Sure I’m older and fatter, but so what? Gravity hasn’t changed. Besides, in the Air Force, I learned techniques for dealing with G-forces. I’ll just put that training to good use, and show this kid that the old man can still be a fun guy.” I wasn’t even fazed by the fact that it was a tight fit (embarrassingly so, actually). I just figured that it would just hold me in place even better, so I could just sit back and enjoy the ride while Austin’s skinny little body would be skidding all over the place.

Wrong.

The ride started up, and I really enjoyed it. For about the 1st 30 seconds or so. The next 2 1/2 hours of the 3 minute ride, not so much. Rarely ever, in a lifetime of being wrong, have I ever been so completely wrong about anything. Austin didn’t skid around, he was mashed securely and fairly comfortably right up against me, laughing like an idiot.

Gravity hadn’t changed since I was a kid, but I had neglected to consider how the changes in me would allow the same old gravity to affect me. I had absolutely failed to realize that the more of me there is, the more of me there is to be affected by gravity (and believe me, there’s a lot more of me now than there was back in my daredevil heyday). My Air Force training was all for nothing. I had thought that the safety rail crushing into me would kind of act like a G-suit, giving me something to push against. It didn’t. In fact, it seemed completely useless. I was wedged into the corner of the seat so tightly that no force on earth could have forced me out, even without the safety bar.

Frankly, it seemed to me that the only purpose it served was to put so much pressure on my midsection that I wasn’t sure which way I was going to lose my pizza, up or down (although if I was a betting man, and I am, my money would have been on both, simultaneously). After about 45 seconds, my neck muscles locked into place from the strain of keeping my massive skull from being ripped off my shoulders (it takes a huge cranium to store all these apparently dead brain cells) by the centrifugal forces, so I couldn’t turn my head. All I could do was sit there with a grimace of pain etched on my face (it’s finally starting to relax), and try to accomplish the near-impossible task of pushing against the G-forces while simultaneously trying to keep all possible exits from my body clamped tightly shut. At one point, I’m pretty sure I lost a partially digested breadstick through my right ear.

Eventually, the giant portable instrument of torture slowed to a stop, and the bar unlocked. I sat there and let Austin get out first. I’ll admit it, I was only pretending to be polite. I just couldn’t move. Austin jumped up and bounded out of the diabolical machine like it had never moved. It took a minute for me to even begin to be able to move. Finally, I mustered all the strength and determination I had left and climbed out, thanking God that the carny had stopped it when our car was over the platform. If it had been over the ground, I’d have never made it down without ending up flat on my face. As it was, my shoe came off, and it took me three tries to get it back on.

The carny came up and asked me if I was ok. “I’ve never seen someone in such a hurry to get off this thing that they walked out of their shoes,” he said. I tried to bluff my way through, muttering something about being fine, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fooling anyone.

After that, I sicced Austin on the naive and good-natured Jess. Let her entertain the fearless, grandpa-killing little brute. I told her I’d take Sharon over to ride the kiddie train. As Jess and Austin went tra-la-la-ing on their way to the bumper cars, I slowly walked with Sharon over to the train. At this point, I was feeling nauseous, weak in the knees, and was soaked in flop-sweat. Not the usual flop-sweat that entertainers and comedians get when their act is dying, but the kind of flop-sweat you get when you’re in fear of actually flopping over dead. I was not a happy guy.

While we waited for the next train ride to start, Sharon started kind of dancing around. It wasn’t, as I had hoped, the I’m-so-happy excitement dance, but the dreaded pee-pee dance. Of course the only facilities nearby were Port-a-Johns. We had to wait for one of the handicapped ones to open up, because there’s no way we were going to both fit into a regular sized one without me knocking her into the hole. Finally one opened up, and in we went. Now I’ve had to use the bathroom in a lot of unpleasant circumstances, but even I balked at this. Sharon took one look at it, then looked at me and said, “Grandpa, I don’t have to potty.” She’s young, but she’s not stupid.

So back to the midway we went. Minutes later, of course, she’s doing the pee-pee dance again, so off we go, as fast as I could stagger, to try to find someplace where she could take care of business with a minimal risk of contamination. We finally found a clean bathroom in a building about a quarter mile away, where the goats, chickens, and rabbits were kept. Then, it was back to the midway to try to find Jess and Austin.

After searching high and low, all over the midway, we finally found them, about 20 feet from the entrance. Austin had talked Jess into several wild rides, so she was ready to turn him back over to me. That’s when he decided he wanted to ride the loop-de-loop roller coaster. That’s all it is, just a big loop. I said alright, and took him over so he could ride it.

While we’re standing in line, I tell him to have fun, and he says, “You’re coming with me aren’t you?” At this point, I abandoned all pretense at tough-guyness. I said, “Look kid, I’m old, I’m fat, I’m tired, I’ve already had one heart attack, and that last ride almost killed me. You’re on your own.”

Then he looks at me with those big, 12-year-old puppy dog eyes, filled with all the sadness of a child whose hero has fallen and says, “But I’m scared to ride it by myself.”

Well, shit. I’m not made of stone, dammit. Manipulative little jerk.

So a couple minutes later, I’m strapped into this mechanized instrument of death, telling myself, it’s okay, at least this one only goes two directions, forward and backward, and it has to stop before it can change directions. I’m telling Austin, “If I puke, I’m puking on you.”

And then, we were off. Once again, I quite enjoyed the first few seconds, but that quickly faded into a repeat of the “Sizzler” experience.

At last, I was right about something. It did stop to change directions. Repeatedly. At the top. Where we were hanging upside down.

I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Those things aren’t safe. Nothing that does that that gets put up in 30 minutes can be safe.” Those people are wrong. I know, because I spent the entire ride praying, “Please God, make it stop, or make it crash, or just take me now, but just please God, MAKE IT STOP!!!!!”

God must have been busy in the middle-east or something, because he was certainly taking no interest in my suffering at that moment. Eventually, the carny took pity on me, or time ran out, but finally it stopped. Once again, it took a few moments for me to collect myself before I could get down from it.

Even Austin had started to get worried about me. After it was all over, I heard him tell Jess, “I didn’t know someone’s head could turn that purple.” Then they laughed and laughed. Maybe he wasn’t all that worried after all.

The rest of the evening is just a blur of staggering from ride to ride, looking for a place to sit and sweat while the kids and Jess enjoyed the rides.

Frederick Nietzsche once said, “What does not kill us, only makes us stronger.”

I feel quite strongly that Herr Nietzsche was full of what I almost sprayed all over the midway. A more accurate saying, I believe, would be, “What does not kill us softens us up so that the next thing that comes along has a better chance.”

Clint Eastwood said, in one of his movies, “A man’s gotta know his limitations.” Never forget, loyal readers, those limitations are on a sliding scale, and slip lower as we get older.

Pine Ridge mission trip – A few thoughts: Okay, more than a few

Culture, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion, Travel

 

The whole motley crew after devotions in the Badlands
The whole motley crew after devotions in the Badlands

The hard-driving and long-suffering Jess and I got home from a mission trip to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation last Saturday night at about 11:00 p.m. I won’t kid you, it was a tough trip, starting about 3 days before we left. Trying to get everything packed into that trailer and my truck is always a challenge, not just because we take a lot of camping gear, but because of the enormous amount of stuff, both clothing and food, that people donate for us to take out there.

The amount of donations is both awesome and terrible. Awesome because people are so generous and eager to help. Many who have never gone on the trip have been our most consistent supporters, and many, I know, have truly given until it hurts, and God bless ’em for it.

It is terrible because we have so much to give, and so many of the Lakota have so little. None of us back here in Indiana think of ourselves as rich, at least nobody I know of. Most of us consider ourselves middle- or at worst, lower-middle-class (although late at night, when we’re lying sleepless in bed worrying about bills, or our kids’ college, or is our car going to make it another year, it’s awfully easy to secretly suspect we don’t even qualify for upper-lower-class).

We get as much love from them as they do from us.
We get as much love from them as they do from us.

Until we get out there, that is. Nothing makes you feel rich like going to the Rez. It’s a real eye-opener, especially the 1st time. We pull up to do our VBS at the playgrounds, and see the grass and weeds anywhere from ankle- to knee-high, and full of ticks, trash, snakes, and who knows what else. We see the basketball court covered with glass from so many broken liquor bottles that it looks like the court is paved with diamonds sparkling in the sun, and the shattered, and frequently shotgunned backboards. All surrounded by shabby, graffiti-scarred government-built houses with yards, some weed-strewn and unkempt, some as neatly maintained as any back home, some surrounded by field fence, some fortified with barbed-wire.

Someone once asked me why some of them will mow their own yard, but not just go on and mow the playground. I asked them, if you lived there, and are lucky enough to have a mower that works, and lucky enough to have a job so you can afford gas for the mower, and are motivated enough to give your own kids a decent, relatively safe place to play, would you take a chance on destroying your equipment and not be able to take care of your own kids’ needs, just to be a nice guy?

How many of us when we’re home go mow or maintain rundown public lands, or even our neighbors’ yards, or do we just bitch about why doesn’t the city or our neighbor do something about that damn dump? Why should we expect more from them than we do from ourselves?

No matter how tired you get, it's hard to say no.
No matter how tired you get, it’s hard to say no.

And then the kids show up, and you kind of forget what a nasty place it must be to live. They are so excited to see us, and especially those of us who’ve made this trip before. They are so grateful and hungry for the attention that it breaks your heart and uplifts it all at the same time. They just can’t seem to get enough. A kid will often pick out one of us and stick like glue. In many ways, it’s like they’re starved for human contact. Although some of them (especially the older ones) want to run and play games, it seems like most just want piggy-back rides, or to sit and talk with us while they draw with sidewalk chalk or do crafts, or they just want to be held, to be touched in a wholesome, loving way.

Of course, it’s not all beauty and light and Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood with the kids either. Just like our kids, some of them will test you. They want to see if you’re willing to put your money where your mouth is. They know that it’s easy for us to come out there and fling Jesus at them, and make ourselves feel good about ourselves for playing with the “poor little indian kids”. They want (and need) to be loved, not patronized. So they push you to see if you’re the real deal. There’s nothing like the look on the face of a white middle-class, middle-aged housewife and mother after being told to “go F%&@ yourself” by a 6-year-old. They’ll swipe your stuff and taunt you with it. A favorite trick is to get you to let them take a picture of you with your phone. Then, you’ve got to spend maybe 15 minutes, maybe an hour trying to get them to give it back. They want to see if you’ll get mad. They want to see what’s really more important to you, your rich white-guy stuff or your words about Jesus.

Their teenagers like to challenge ours, especially the boys. They love sports, like most kids, and take great pleasure in schooling our guys. They will often try intimidation, to see what our boys will do. It’s a tough position for a teenage boy. If you back down, you’re a pussy, but if you don’t, are you being a christian? Does being a Christian equate to being a pussy? It’s a complicated theological question for a teenage boy in the middle of a pick-up basketball game. There’s also the possibility that if you come back too strong that you’re going to be Custer (although given the pitiful state of history instruction in our schools, there’s very little chance of any of our kids even knowing who Custer was. You can bet the Lakota kids do though.)

Usually, the testing dies off after the 1st day or two. Often the kids who tested you the most are the ones who are most upset at the end of the week when you have to leave.

This is why we do what we do.
This is why we do what we do.

Speaking of our piss-poor education in our own history, it always kinda cracks me up when I’m telling someone about the trip, and they ask me, “Do they still live in Teepee’s?” and stuff like that. It’s not just kids either. It’s educated adults who often ask this. It’s not just a question of education, it’s a matter of complete and utter disregard and neglect of these people by the entire nation. Nobody ever asks do Hawaiians live in grass huts or if Eskimo’s still live in igloos. I’ve actually stood on the Reservation, talking to whites passing through, and been asked, “Are there Indians around here?”

The ignorance of whites about conditions on Indian Reservations, and about Indians in general, is really shocking to me, even though I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Isolation is exactly why we put the reservations where they are. We looked around after taking everything worth taking from them, and, not having the heart to just exterminate them outright, benevolently “gave” them the most worthless bits of land we could find. At least until we found out there was something underneath that worthless ground that we did want, like uranium. Even then, we didn’t make them move, we just went in, took what we wanted, and left them poisoned water sources by way of thanks.

We cheated them, killed them, poisoned them, crushed them and penned up those who were left, to be further cheated, poisoned, and exploited. We did everything we could to make them helpless and dependent on us so we could do what we wanted without resistance, and now many of us have the nerve to talk about those lucky Indians with their government checks and casinos, and shame on them for being drunk, stoned, lazy, and unemployed. I mean what’s wrong with those people? You’d think they’d be eager to learn our ways now that we’ve shown them how awesome we are. Didn’t we even carve our presidents heads into their holy land, just as a constant reminder?

Sorry, I get a little carried away. It’s been said of the Lakota that they were a stone-age people who were unable to even discover the wheel, but that is simply not true. They knew about the wheel centuries ago. Their whole world was a wheel. The sky was a circle, the earth was a ball, even their homes were circular. The plains Indians even made wheels, like the Medicine Wheel in Wyoming. The difference is, that, while we use the wheel to move our stuff around, have to have the wheel, because we have so much stuff, to the Lakota, the wheel anchored their world. The entire earth was their wheel and wagon, and provided everything they needed. They didn’t need the wooden wheel. They lived in their wagon and it provided everything they needed. They didn’t need to take so much stuff with them because they never left the source of their stuff, and didn’t need anything it didn’t provide.

We took that away from them. We took away their wheel and gave them little squares and boxes, with lots of nice sharp corners. Boxes to live in, squares to live on. Imaginary boundaries on a boundless plain. It took the Catholic Church roughly 300 years to accept that the world was round (1492-1822), yet we expected the Lakota (among others) to accept that it was square in roughly 50. Once again, I digress.

Back to the mission trip. This year, we were a bit more disorganized than usual. The last few years, we’ve adopted the philosophy that we’ll go out there with a very loose plan, and be ready to do whatever work God sent our way. This year, we really had no plan at all. The Tennessee group who usually goes out the week following us had to go the same week as us. They are a lot more numerous, and better organized than we are, so it was decided that we’d just follow their lead, and help them out where needed. It turned out, they didn’t really need us. Those guys really have it going on. We expected to help them build a playground set and shelter at Potato Creek. We got there on Monday, saw what they were doing and realized we’d literally just be in their way. Those guys were good.

I think that our VBS/Street Ministry teams were more useful, just because it meant more attention to each kid. The only part of our trip that was unaffected was the Adult Ministry. Still, God sent us plenty of opportunities.

Dave McCoy, Caleb Carithers, and I were driving back to camp one afternoon when we passed a young woman walking along the road with a bunch of little kids, out in the middle of nowhere. We stopped and asked if they needed a ride, and she said they were going to Kyle. That’s about 20 miles from where we met her. Since we camp just outside of Kyle, we offered her a lift. We figured she was going to stay with someone there, but she said she was just going to Kyle to get diapers for her babies. She had 5 little kids with her, the oldest being about 4 or 5, and it was obvious that she’d set out for Kyle a little too late for at least one of the littlest ones

When we got to Kyle, we stopped at the grocery, and Caleb went into the store with her and got them all something to drink. Then we took her over to the police station to get the diapers, which seemed odd to us, but hey, it’s the Rez. There was no one there, so we invited her to dinner at the camp. We took her out there, and had dinner with her and her kids. After dinner we invited her to stay for devotions with us, but she wanted to get her kids home, so we loaded her down with diapers, wipes, leftovers, etc. and Troy Beckner gave them and another Native family a ride home.

Well, this is really getting long, so I’ll wrap it up with this. I get asked frequently if we’re doing any good, if we’re making any kind of difference out there, and I never really know what to say. I think we do. I know that helping people is good. Putting a smile on a sad little kid’s face is good. Putting a warm meal in a hungry kid’s belly is good. Giving desperately poor people the basics for survival, even if it’s only enough for a day or two is good. Giving people a safe place for their kids to play, or for them to camp while they worship is good. Making friends with the isolated and neglected is good. These good things are good not only for the Lakota, but for us as well.

As far as making a difference, I hope we do, but I know that if we do, it’s only because God takes our pitiful, inefficient, flailing efforts and uses them for his purposes.

Well, I guess that’s about it. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to writing stupid stuff about embarrassing bodily functions soon.

For those of you interested in learning more about any of this, just google Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

Here are a few links to help you get started.

www.redcloudschool.org/reservation

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Ridge_Indian_Reservation

www.4aihf.org/id40.html

 

God’s Mysterious Ways, or Was He Just Messing With Us? A Few Thoughts On Male Nipples

All About Me, Religion, Uncategorized

People love to claim that God has a sense of humor. We also hear a lot about his “mysterious ways”. Something happened to me the other day that got me to thinking about that. I was outside working, clearing some brush. It was hot, and I was sweating like a preacher on Judgement Day. I had put my cigarettes in the pocket of my T-shirt, and after a couple of hours, my left nipple was killing me. I mean it really hurt. Apparently those cellophane wrappers are a lot more abrasive than you’d think. I was miserable, and it reminded me of a time when I was working at a sporting goods store. We had those stupid name tags that we had to  wear. I was trying to lower a treestand down from a shelf, and it knocked the pin loose. That sucker dug in, and I thought I’d torn my nipple off. I was more than a little put out, and needless to say, I never put that name tag on again. Thinking back about that, really got me to thinking (that’s me, I’m a thinker) about creation (ok, maybe not a very good thinker), and I thought, “Why do men even have these damned things?”

Think about it. If you believe the Bible (and I do) God created Man first, then Women. So why did he give us nipples? We certainly don’t need them. They serve absolutely no purpose on a man. Can you think of any other part of the body that serves absolutely no purpose? Granted, there’s the appendix, but I don’t think they’re quite sure about that one. Now, believe me, I’m the first to admit that my knowledge of sciencey stuff is not great, so I Googled it. I quickly discovered that I needed to refine my search to “why do men have nipples”, because just Googling “Nipples” led me to a number of websites that, while interesting, were not really answering my question, although I did learn that people can be quite ingenious and startling when they set out to find a use for something.

Once I refined my search, I did find some useful websites. They weren’t nearly as interesting, but certainly of more use on a philosophical, theological, and scientific level. What I discovered was that no one really knows why men have nipples. No one really even had any good theories. Not the evolution guys, not the religious guys, not even the regular sciencey guys. The closest any of them came was, oddly enough, the religious guys, who seemed to think they were designed by God as a spare erogenous zone, or maybe just decoration.

I’m not so sure about that. I mean, for one thing, there are a lot of parts of my body that would benefit from a little sprucing up or decorating, but if God was so concerned with our appearance and/or attractiveness, He’d have made broccoli a source of fat and cheeseburgers a fat-burning food (c’mon, you know he had to know what we’d like). As far as erogenous zones go, pretty much all the others have other purposes (at least all the ones I can think of, although I don’t get out much. I may have to do some more research on Google). All the other bits that men and women share (hands, feet, brains, etc., and yes ladies, we men do have brains, we just save them for important things like sports stats and Clint Eastwood quotes) have a purpose that both sexes need, and the bits we don’t share aren’t needed by both.

Which brings me back to the original question, “Why do men have nipples?” Was God just thinking ahead, and, knowing that women were going to need them, think, “It would look weird if men don’t have ’em too.” Was he thinking, “You know, men don’t have enough erogenous zones with just the necessary equipment. I’d hate for them to not enjoy sex.” You know he knows us better than that.

I’m left with two different conclusions, and can’t decide between them: Conclusion #1. God knew how much women were going to suffer with that whole childbirth thing, and putting up with men (most of us mean well, but let’s face it, we’ve gotta be a pain in the ass), and deciding to even the score, went with nipples because he knew that if he stuck us with anything as painful as childbirth, most of us would just die. or Conclusion #2. He was just messing with us, and thought, “Let’s see what they think about this. hahahahahahahahahaha.”

Now I know that I’m pretty theologically wonky, so if any of you lovely readers out there ever run into one of those guys who know what God thinks about everything (and we all know there are plenty of them out there), be sure to ask them about this. It should be easy to answer for someone who knows what God thinks about really complex stuff like homosexuality, war, poverty, capitalism, politics, and that kind of stuff. The only thing I’m really sure about is that He loves us, and wants us to love him and each other (if you want to see what God thinks about loving each other, either check the Bible, or be very careful in forming your Google query).

Let me know what they say.

Rich Mullins movie. Another freaking post.

All About Me, Arts, Culture, Movies, Religion

I got a comment on a previous post about the movie “Ragamuffin”. It was a very nice post from a very nice guy who was disappointed in the movie. He was disappointed that they didn’t show more of Wayne’s funny, charming side. That seems to be a fairly common complaint, so I thought I’d post my response to him here. Keep in mind that I don’t speak for any of the folks who made the movie. This is all my opinion, and mine alone. That said . . .

 

Hey Tom – I think you’re kinda missing the point of the movie. They could have gone with a different angle (and actor) and shown Wayne’s charming, witty, funny side, but that’s the side everyone knows, and the side everyone (well a lot of people anyway) emulates. The side that I think most of us look at and say, “Why aren’t I like that?” But the upshot of making that movie would have just been preaching to the choir, and ultimately just glorifying Wayne as some kind of paragon of Christianity. Let’s face it, if you want that kind of stuff, you can find a shitload without really even trying. Just go to U-tube. What they were trying to do was make a movie that we could all watch and say, “Holy shit, I am just like Rich Mullins in so many ways! Maybe God loves me too.” A movie that ultimately glorifies God and not a musician who sang about him. Don’t get me wrong, I think Wayne was a good man, and a good Christian, if there is such a thing (at the very least, he was a better Christian than me), but I think part of the problem today is this whole cult of personality that has taken over. Even the “real” news is inundated with pointless pablum about celebrities and how great this one is or how bad that one is. The reason for this is that’s what the people apparently want. To hold up Miley Cyrus or Lindsey Lohan as examples of how terrible people are, or to hold up Tom Hanks or Princess Diana or Rich Mullins as examples of what we all ought to try to be. At the very least, us Christians ought to know better, but instead, we make heroes out of guys like Wayne or Amy Grant or Billy Graham, and have the nerve to be offended when we find out they’re just as jacked up as we are. It’s especially bad once somebody like that dies, whether that someone is a celebrity or just a family member. Once they’re dead, we sanctify them. We block out all the bad stuff about them, or, if we can’t block it out, we make it funny and endearing. I’ve lost both parents, a brother and a sister, and did that to all of them. Only when this movie came out did I really start dealing with all of it. Up til now, recognizing the bad aspects of their personalities and behavior seemed like a betrayal of their memory. Now that I’ve started actually dealing with it though, I realize that to deny those aspects or to try to laugh them off is really robbing them of their humanity, and that is unfair to them, and unfair to myself. I love and miss them all, but if I could have them back, I’d want them back warts and all, because that’s who they were. I think if you really want to know who Rich Mullins was, then the movie they made tells a necessary part, especially when taken in context with all the truly wonderful things about him that everyone already knows.

Well, sorry about getting on my soapbox. I do understand where you’re coming from, and I hope my little rant here won’t stop you from reading more (normally, I’m a lot funnier). Anyway, take care and thanks for reading.

 

I’m still here! More stupid stories to come!

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Uncategorized, Wives

Just in case you’ve been wondering why I haven’t been posting anything recently (all 34 of you), it’s not because I’ve run out of things to say, or stupid stories. I just started an internship at the Palladium-Item for the summer, so it’s keeping me pretty busy. It’s a completely different type of writing for me, and to be honest, not nearly as much fun. It is however, great experience (for me anyway, I’m not so sure about for the Pal-Item). Anyway, I’m going to try to keep posting something up here every week, so don’t give up on me. To all of you who’ve been reading my blog, thanks. It’s nice to know there are still some people out there with good taste. Actually, since I think there are only about 30 of you out there who read this regularly, I guess that kind of indicates that there are roughly a little over 7,000,000,000 people out there with good taste. Thank God for the rest of you!

For those of you who want to be notified when I post something, down at the bottom of the page, where you can post comments, just under the comments block are a couple of boxes that you can check that will send you an e-mail when I post something.

By the way, thanks to those of you who have commented on some of my posts. It’s nice to get some feedback from readers. I’m a little surprised that I haven’t apparently angered anyone yet. Guess I’ll have to try harder. At any rate, I’ve enjoyed reading your comments.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to attract more readers to my blog. I noticed that the one post I published with Rich Mullins’ name in the title got like 1,000 views. I think the next most popular post has had maybe 100. Oddly enough, that post was about me running around without pants to keep the relatives away. I think we can all tell which post resonates most strongly with my regular readers (you sick, sick people). So anyway, for a while there I thought, “I’ll just put the name Rich Mullins in the title of every post!” Then I realized that was at least a little bit cynical, even for me. If any of you have any suggestions for me on how to lure more suckers readers into my world of stupidity, please let me know.

Anyway, I’d better close for now. It’s a little hard to concentrate on entertaining you all with my wife, the sensible and right 99.9% of the time Jess, arguing with my grand-daughter about whether she farted or not (the grand-daughter, not Jess. Jess knows when she farts, there’s really no denying it.).

Also, I have to start work on my next public apology to the not-nearly-as-forgiving-as-she-used-to-be but still wonderful Jess.

Winter Is Over! The Return of No Pants Fridays

 

The delightful and smokin' hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland
The delightful and smokin’ hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland

It has been a long winter, a “Game of Thrones” kind of winter. A vile, nasty, brutal, enough to make me think about moving to Florida and you know how much I hate Florida (a lot, in case you didn’t), kind of winter. It has not, however, been all bad. At least when the weather is that bad, people tend to stay at home and hibernate, which means less company for my wife, the privacy loving and likes-people-but-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-it Jess and I. Not that we don’t like company, but when you live in the midst (literally) of a large and socially-inclined family, there is always somebody who just “drops by”. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. For years now, I’ve drawn it on Friday night. For the 1st few years that we lived on “the compound” everybody avoided our house on Friday nights for fear of walking in in the middle of our carnal exploits, a fear I intentionally fostered through off-color stories about what we got up to, and dropping hints about aberrant behavior and deviant proclivities. Unfortunately, as the years went by, my allusions to deviance seemed to lose their effectiveness, or maybe they just remembered that I’m not quite as wicked as I say (or maybe I just don’t have the energy that I used to).

I next tried just warning them off. I told them all that unless they were bleeding or on fire, to stay away. This may sound callous, but nothing screws up an evening of whisky, woman, and song (along with maybe a good game of strip cribbage) faster than being invaded by a horde of kids and grandkids. It really throws your groove off. It’s not that I don’t love my kids and grandkids, I do, but, (as most of you have probably noticed as you’ve gotten older) that old, romantic groove comes along a lot less frequently than it used to. At any rate, a straight-up warning was even less efficacious than hints and innuendo. People just kept dropping by on Friday nights.

Adding insult to injury was the fact that pretty much every time they did, Jess and I weren’t really up to anything more scandalous than eating pizza with too many jalapenos on it, and that’s just embarrassing. Not the jalapeno pizza part, the not doing anything scandalous part. The embarrassment of being caught repeatedly with my pants up, so to speak, was just more than I wanted to face. Not to mention that I really do feel that we should be engaging in the “Carnal Olympics”, as I like to think of it, in order to amuse ourselves, and not to horrify my progeny. It’s really just too much pressure for a man of my age, dignity (?), and blood pressure.

So, I have devised a new ploy, one that requires virtually no change on our part, and guarantees a horrific experience for any untimely visitors. I call it “No Pants Fridays”, kind of the home version of casual Fridays. I told my family that they were welcome to visit any time, but if they come by on a Friday evening, Jess and I will not be wearing any pants, and we aren’t putting any on if they show up. It works like a charm, especially since I told them that I have a pair of mesh bikini briefs that I save just for Friday nights (good luck getting that visual out of your mind). There is no pressure on Jess or I to get up to anything we don’t want to, seeing the voluptuous and alluring Jess walking around sans trousers certainly puts me in a good mood, and the knowledge that I’m sitting around in my drawers certainly keeps the visitors at bay. I have to say, it’s a very effective way of deterring visitors.The only down-side is that it doesn’t work during cold weather, especially since we don’t smoke in the house, and everyone knows that we’re not going to go all night without going outside for a smoke. Therefore, I’m doubly happy that warm weather is back.

This post is not intended to imply that we are anti-social or misanthropic in any way. We’re not. We genuinely enjoy company, and have no problem with people visiting, even unannounced, so feel free to just drop by. Just not on Friday after about 4:00. Unless you think I’m kidding.

God, Dad, Me, and Rich Mullins: A Few Thoughts On Rejection

All About Me, Arts, Culture, Movies, Politics & Culture, Religion

There's a phrase you never thought you'd associate with me. Try to get it out of your head though. hahahahaha
There’s a phrase you never thought you’d associate with me. Try to get it out of your head though. hahahahaha. Seriously though, I look like an Irish Buddha. Kinda disturbing, huh?

I wrote this a few weeks ago during a showing of “Ragamuffin: The True Story of Rich Mullins”. I’ve put off publishing it because I’m afraid it’s a little bit muddy. I know what I want to say, I’m just not sure that this says it. I hate to be misunderstood. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to let me know what you think.

I’m sitting in Mr. Coblentz’ old Sunday school classroom in our church basement. Upstairs we’re playing the 3rd showing of the movie “Ragamuffin”, the story of the gospel musician, Rich Mullins, my brother Wayne (sorry, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to call him Rich). This being the 3rd showing this weekend, I’m kind of reaching critical mass with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good movie, in many ways, a great movie, but it’s painful to watch, for me anyway. It’s even more painful, or maybe difficult, or emotional, or uncomfortable are better terms, to watch it here, in the church we grew up in. Not only does it bring back memories of Wayne, but also of Mom and Dad, my sister Deb, Harold and Martha Coblentz, Bill and Betty Cox, Naomi Green, and so many more that I’ll never see again, at least not in this life. It makes me remember how much I miss them all, and how much I owe to them, and to the folks who are still here. I’m not going to mention any of their names; I’m pretty sure that would just embarrass them. Suffice to say, they are the ones who were here when I was growing up. These are the people who, when I moved back home after being gone for 20 years, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and open arms. The people who, most of all, should have known better. These are the heroes of my own paltry faith, and, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say, of generations of kids who’ve been lucky enough to grow up in this church.

As far as the movie goes, much has been made of Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship in the movie. I can assure you that it was both much worse, and much better than it’s portrayed in the movie. The movie’s portrayal of their relationship seems, as far as I can gather from reading people’s comments on the Facebook, to be helping a lot of people who had dads like mine, and I’m glad. I’m also glad that Mel Fair is a good enough actor to show the pain Dad felt over that relationship. I think he gave an outstanding, nuanced performance in a very tough role. I think though, that a large aspect of that broken relationship has been missed (or maybe it’s just me. I’ve seen this thing about 6 or 7 times, and just realized it this weekend). Everybody seems to get that Wayne’s broken relationship with Dad is symbolic of his broken relationship with God. That he kept trying to get Dad to love and accept him, and Dad just couldn’t do it. That’s true, as far as it goes, but it seems to me that that is the smaller part. To understand the bigger part, I think you have to understand how we all felt about Dad (please keep in mind that this is all based on my own feelings, and my perceptions of my siblings feelings. I do not presume to speak authoritatively for any of my brothers or sisters). When I was little I saw my Dad as God. Not the touchy-feely, “footprints-in-the-sand” God of the New Testament, but the wrathful, “I love you, but for your own good I’ll kick your ass if you don’t do as I say” God of the Old Testament. Dad was everything a man should be, everything the Old Testament said God was. He was stern, he was tough, he was pissed. He was DOING THIS FOR OUR OWN GOOD. He was also perfect, or at least a perfectionist. Dad could make anything, he could fix anything. Things that he fixed lasted longer than one fresh from the store. He could look at a fistful of nuts, and pick out the exact size and thread that he needed. A lot of the reason for the disconnect between Dad and me (and I’m pretty sure the rest of us), wasn’t that Dad was tough, or that he was emotionally distant, it was that we could never measure up. We were all, in slightly varying degrees, totally incompetent at anything practical. We tried and tried, but we were all trainwrecks, a danger to ourselves and others. I think that was the root cause of the disconnect between all of us and Dad. We felt inadequate. It wasn’t that Dad never said he loved us, we knew he did. It wasn’t that he expected us to be as good at things as he was. It was pretty obvious from an early age that none of us were very good at anything practical. He did expect us to do our best, and REALLY our best, not that “I’m doing my best” that we all pull out when we’re half-assing something we don’t really want to do at all. Dad yelled at me all the time when we were working together, but as I think back, I can’t think of a time when he ever said a cross word to me when I really was doing the best that I could. He had more confidence and faith in us than we did. I think a lot of the problem was not that Dad rejected Wayne, but that Wayne rejected Dad, and it is in this that I think Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship represents the broken relationship with God. Of course, it’s possible that I’m just projecting my own issues.

Most of the problem between me and Dad came not from Dad, but from me. I knew I couldn’t be as good, or as tough, or as hard-working, or as right as he was, and so, I rebelled. I couldn’t understand how he could love me as I was, because I knew I wasn’t good enough. I’d find some other way to prove I was good enough. So, as years went by, I found myself constantly looking for his approval. I tried so hard to do the right thing, on so many things, and fell short on pretty much all of them. It never occurred to me that it wasn’t him I was failing, it was myself. Dad loved me just the way I was, even when I was doing some just remarkably stupid things (and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding remarkably stupid things to do). Unfortunately, Dad died just as I was getting old enough, or mature enough, to really appreciate him, and to really know that, although he didn’t approve of the stupid things I did, that he loved me just as I am. I think that a lot of the reason that Wayne didn’t feel God’s love, that many of us feel that way, is that we believe in God, but we KNOW us. I mean seriously, how could a perfect God love me? I know what kind of stupid things I get up to. I know that a lot of the things I really want to do are things I shouldn’t do (but man, do they look like fun!). I know I don’t measure up to God even in my everyday life, when I’m trying to do the things I’m “supposed” to. I know I’m not cutting the theological mustard even on the little things. I know I eat too much, drink too much, cuss too much, smoke too much, don’t pay enough attention to my kids or wife, don’t make enough money, aren’t a good steward of my blessings, and God help me if he comes back in the evening, because it’s far more likely he’ll find me watching Game of Thrones or The Wolf of Wall Street than reading the bible. I also suspect strongly that I am not alone in this. How could God love losers like us? You’d have to go all the way back to Exodus to find another bunch as venal, fickle, unfaithful, self-righteous, and dim-witted as I am. And I’m talking about those of us who go to church regularly, and really try to follow God. Well, you might not have to go back to Exodus. Take a good look at the disciples sometime (I know I don’t measure up to those guys, and they lived with Jesus for 3 years and still didn’t seem to get it, so how much do I suck?). So a lot of us rebel. We’ll be as good as we can, and that’s gonna have to be good enough for God. After all, we’re still a lot better than a lot of people we could mention. I mean, aren’t we all the way God made us? Then, because we know in our heart of hearts that that’s just a load of rationalization bullshit, we feel even worse, like even bigger losers, and push God farther away. It seems to me that what appealed to Wayne about Brennan Manning’s message is that it seems to say (to me anyway),“You are as God made you. You’re not perfect, but he loves you anyway. So stop trying to make him love you, and be the YOU that God made. Do your best, your REAL best, and when you fail, and you will, remember that God will always love you.” Now I’ve read that some people believe that the Ragamuffin Gospel is just a lot of new-age hippie, I’m ok, you’re ok bullshit, but I disagree. I don’t see it as a license to just do whatever you want because, “That’s how God made me.” It seems to me that it is a way to move the stumbling blocks that keep us from loving God, to keep from just giving up. To remind us that God is bigger than we are, is bigger than our sin, our weakness, so that we can always see him, always find our way back to him. I think the question we’re really asking isn’t, “How can God love me?” but “How can I make him stop?” Because we just get tired of feeling like losers all the time, and if we can get him to turn his back on us, we won’t be reminded constantly of how far short we fall. Fortunately, it’s not up to us. He loves us whether we want him to or not, whether we deserve it or not.

A common (I think) way of referring to God as “our rock”, and he is. He is always there, and always Himself. But there’s a big old ocean of crap out there too, and we’re us. We’re prone to want to slip down the Rock, just to soak our feet, and end up getting washed off. But when you get washed off, you don’t say, “Well, that’s it for me, I don’t deserve to be on the Rock. I’ll just drown in this ocean of crap. In fact, I think I LIKE this crap. This is great crap! I can’t believe I was missing out on all this crap!” Well, you shouldn’t anyway, but that’s exactly what a lot of us seem to do, and so, down we sink, sucking in as much crap as we can, all the while congratulating ourselves on how much smarter and more sophisticated we are than all those poor saps sitting up there on the Rock. In fact, we’ll just be our own rock, or make our own rock, out of sex or drugs or booze or money or power or whatever trips our own particular trigger. Some of us even manage to be quite happy in our ocean of crap, sitting on our own personal rocks. But it is all a lie. There is only one Rock. Accept no substitute.

All of which brings me back to Dad. Dad didn’t bust our asses because he was mad at us. If he was mad at anyone, it was himself (most of the time anyway). He was hard on us because he loved us, and he knew the world wasn’t about to give us a break. If he hadn’t taught Wayne the value of hard work, Wayne wouldn’t have worked so hard at writing and performing. If he hadn’t taught Wayne to be tough, the music business would have chewed him up and spit him out like it has so many others. If he hadn’t taught Wayne that there are more important things than success and money, Wayne wouldn’t have been able to walk away and stay himself, the Wayne that God made and Dad trained.

And that brings me back to Whitewater Christian Church. I let myself get washed off the Rock as a young man, and I sucked down as much of that ocean of crap as I could. It took me quite a while to recognize my mistake, and as a result, I did a lot of damage, both to myself, and to those I love. Eventually though, I found a tractor big enough and powerful enough to pull my head out of my ass, and I started swimming back to the Rock. Our church has helped guide me back. Thinking about the example that those wonderful, loving, flawed people had set for me when I was a kid gives me hope for myself, and I think about them every time I set foot in that church. I know that they weren’t perfect (and to be honest, most of them would probably horrified at the pedestal that my generation has put them on), but they had the courage to try, and the patience and love to keep trying. I’m also comforted when I look around and see so many willing to take their place and continue the tradition established by our forebears. I don’t know that any of us will ever have the positive impact on the kids that those older had on us, but it’s encouraging to see so many willing to try. I feel lucky to be a part of it.

Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture, Wives

Well, ‘lil buckaroos, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Not for you, of course, this has nothing to do with you. This is all about me (sorry, my narcissism is showing). The good news is, I’m not losing my mind. I’ve discovered that I am NOT the victim of a vast and nameless conspiracy to make me think I’m fat (for more information on all the vast and nameless conspiracies that I AM a victim of, stay tuned for future posts!). For the longest time, I have suspected that someone (or something, DUH DUH DUHN) has been changing all the mirrors in my house, at church, and at school with fun-house mirrors, and warping all the windows on the front of my house.  To make things even worse, it looked like it wasn’t a one-time change, but an on-going process, increasing the illusion of fatness in tiny increments. I had also noticed that everytime anyone took a picture of me, they used a wide-angle lens, even for close-ups. It was annoying and, frankly, kind of hurtful. It was really starting to freak me out. Jess was no help. When I mentioned it to her, she gave me that look, you fellas know the one, the one that says, “I’ve married an idiot”. They give you that look so that they don’t have to say it. What she said was, “You’re an idiot.” Obviously, experience has taught her that I’m not all that good at picking up on non-verbal communications. As it turns out, she was right (of course), it was all a false alarm.

The bad news is, I’m fat. I’m just going to have to face it. It’s really aggravating. In some ways, I almost wish that someone was messing with me. For one thing, I’d have to be way more important than even I think I am to rate that kind of large-scale torment, not to mention effort and expense. But no, I’m just fat. A year and a half ago, I realized I was kind of reaching maximum density, so I went on a diet, and lost 40 pounds. I was looking good (well, better anyway), and really kind of proud of myself. People (doctors are people, right?) had been telling me for years that I needed to cut back on my food, exercise, lose weight, etc., you know, all the things they tell you, that they know good and well you’re not going to do, just so they can say, “I told you so.” Let’s face it, if I was capable of moderate behavior, I wouldn’t be in this shape to begin with. I finally took it to heart though, and got serious about taking care of myself. Guess what the reward for all that weight loss and effort was. That’s right, I HAD A FREAKIN’ HEART ATTACK! It wasn’t even the fat-and-out-of-shape kind of heart attack! The cardiologist told me I had the kind that even skinny, in-shape people have. It was the too-stressed-out-with-blood-pressure-that-could-inflate-a-tractor-trailer-tire kind of heart attack. Now I ask you, how’s that supposed to make me feel. I could have died, and after months of depriving myself of bread, grease, potatoes, pasta, snacks, cake, salt, and some of the other food groups, as well. To be perfectly honest, it kind of killed my motivation. I mean, what’s the point in stopping doing so many of the things you love, when you’re just going to die anyway, apparently just so that fate can thumb its nose at the medical community at your expense. So I backslid a little. I’m happy to say that I didn’t regain all the weight I’d lost, but I did gain some. It turned out that it wasn’t my mirrors that need recalibrated, it’s me.

I began to suspect the horrible truth as I was walking in to school one day. You know how, when you look at your feet when you’re walking, they disappear underneath you, and then come back when you take another step forward? It’s kind of a steady foot-no foot, foot, no-foot rhythm. This one day, I noticed that my rhythm was off. My foot was spending a lot more time invisible than visible, like foot, no-foot, no-foot, foot, no-foot, no-foot. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, since I’m a middle-aged white guy, I just take it for granted that I’m extremely rhythm impaired. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized something was wrong. I know I can’t dance, but I’m kind of an old hand at walking. So I tried an experiment. I stood still and looked down. You guessed it, no feet.

The next sign I noticed was that when I was in the shower, I was having to lean forward a lot more than I used to in order to see “the boys”. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m just standing there staring. It’s sort of like running into an old friend on the street. You know, You smile, say “Hi, how are you,” maybe a quick handshake, and then it’s, “Have a good day, good to see you,” and you get on with your day. It would be rude to just ignore him. You fellas know what I’m talking about (it’s ok, you can deny it. We both know the truth).

The clincher came at school the other day. I’d had to get a little dressed up for a thing after school. Nothing formal, just a nice shirt, dress pants, and good shoes instead of my standard t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Still, I thought I was looking pretty good. As I walked down the hall, a kid I was in a class with last semester came out of a classroom, so we went through the “how are ya” routine I already described. As we were about to go our separate ways, he asked why I was dressed like that. I told him, and he laughed and said he thought I was going to a costume party. “You look just like Peter Griffin,” he said, “You know, the hair, the white shirt, green pants.” Even worse, the whole time he’s telling me this, he’s making rolling gestures in front of his stomach. I was back in class before I realized who Peter Griffin is (for those as culturally unaware as me, he’s the main character on “Family Guy”). It was doubly painful to me because, not only is Peter Griffin fat, but I hate that show! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d compared me to Homer Simpson, at least I like the show, but I’ve got too much hair. Damn these luxurious, flowing locks of mine! On the other hand, of course, there are fewer and fewer guys my age who still have this much hair, so I guess it could be worse.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I’m afraid I’m going to have to get serious about losing some more weight. It’s for purely aesthetic reasons of course, although it will be nice to be able to tie my shoes again without having to stop to breathe.

I’m Not Dead Yet! (and there was much rejoicing. yeah.)

All About Me, Home Life, Wives

Good news friends and neighbors! My wife, the reasonably understanding and slightly-less-than-normally forgiving Jess, has decided not to kill me. I know that you’ve all been worried sick about it. I can just picture you all, unable to eat, the sleepless nights, all life become suddenly meaningless because of your grief and concern for me. Well, rejoice, ‘lil Buckaroos, your suffering is at an end (actually, it’s probably just deferred, because what are the odds that I’ll never end up in that situation again?) Granted, I could have ended your suffering as early as Saturday afternoon, but I thought it best to wait a few days in case Jess suffered a relapse of her homicidal impulses. Plus, as I said at the end of my last post, it really was all your fault.

How, you may ask, did I avoid an unspeakable (and let’s face it, well-deserved) fate worse than death? Well, I started out by pouring on the old, infamous Moon Mullins charm. As when I first began my relentless pursuit of the luscious and delectable Jess over 20 years ago, that was a near-fatal mistake. Again, some people just never learn. Then I fell back on the same tactics that ultimately bagged her in the first place. I sucked up. I begged. I pleaded. Once I’d softened her up with my barrage of pitiable penitence, I brought out the big guns, the tremendulous trio of whiskey, hot oil massage and unequaled (at least as far as she knows) sexual prowess. I don’t like to brag (well ok, I do.), but she was still smiling Sunday morning, and not just because she was looking forward to Church. Not that my efforts are without a downside. My standard heavy-handed approach (if some is good, more is better!) has pretty much turned our entire bedroom into a giant Slip-and-Slide. It may be weeks before we can walk through it without cleats. However, I’ve always felt it is better to be enthusiastic than good, so “Mission Accomplished” I say. There is no domestic difficulty that can’t be overcome by whiskey, a sense of humor, and a 55 gallon drum of lube (If you think I’m kidding, check this out. You’re welcome! Don’t forget to read the reviews.)

Needless to say, I was pretty pleased with myself. I didn’t even have to resort to my last-ditch tactic of enticing her with my Bob and Doug Mackenzie album, which is a good thing, because that never worked the 1st time around either. I’ve never understood her resistance to the soothing tones of Bob and Doug’s Canadian accents and beer-based comedy. The woman obviously has a soul of stone, but that notwithstanding, being married to her is still the best thing by far that’s ever happened to me. I’m a lucky guy.

So, friends, fans, loyal readers, and those of you who stumbled upon this humble blog by accident, let your hearts be filled with rejoicing and gladness. I have survived to screw up another day.

A Solemn and Heartfelt Farewell To My Legion of Adoring Fans

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Wives

I must say “Farewell” to you good people, for this morning, I committed the cardinal sin against my wife, the no longer long-suffering and understanding Jess. As a result, I have absolutely no confidence in my chances for surviving the day. I thought I’d take this opportunity to say goodbye while she is distracted by my granddaughter because, from the looks she’s been giving me for the last couple of hours, it will only take 1 more stupid mistake to push her completely over the edge. Those of you who know me will understand that the odds of my going even 2 or 3 hours without doing something stupid are virtually non-existent. Those of you who don’t know me will understand, after reading this. So, just in case she smothers me with a pillow in my sleep tonight, goodbye.

I wish to say that I in no way blame her. She has been the best of wives, loving, patient, and kind up to now, and God knows, it can’t have been easy for her. I also want to say that my mistake was a mistake of omission, not intention. Perhaps I should explain. We’re having a special event at church next weekend, and I volunteered her (strike 1) to contact people about it. Jess, while a charming and personable woman, is possibly the only person on earth who hates talking on the phone more than I do. However, she soldiered on uncomplaining, making calls, and leaving messages when necessary. Then we realized that there were several people who’s numbers had changed, or were not in our church directory, which is several years out of date. We (I) then decided that the best way to contact them would be through the Facebook (DUN DUN DUNNNNN. strike 2.) This morning I thought I’d help her out, since she never uses the Facebook. I went through the Friends list, and set up the messaging thing so that all she’d have to do was type in her message and send it. I got her going on it, and then went to take care of some personal business. Mere seconds after I’d set down to business, I heard her yell for me. Then my granddaughter took up the call. Now, those of you who know me will know that I was in no position (literally) to jump up and run immediately to her assistance, but as soon as I heard her yell, I realized that she had hit “enter” at the end of her first line (strike 3). As soon as I could, I went to see what was wrong and discovered that I was right, she had hit “enter”, and sent the message “Hi Guys” to 27 people. She was not happy. I explained to her what happened, that hitting “enter” sends the message, and then apologized for forgetting to tell her that beforehand. Then I told her to just go ahead and type her message and hit “enter”. Now, what I heard her say was, “I’ve already typed it, but was afraid to touch anything because I didn’t want to screw it up again.” Trying to be helpful, I said, “Oh, Okay,” and hit “enter” (strike 4). You would have thought I’d hit the nuclear launch button in the White House. She just exploded. Apparently what she had said was, “I’ve already started typing it…,” a small, but key difference. It took me a while to figure out just what I’d done, since I couldn’t really understand anything she was saying as she stormed out of the den and through the house, roaring. The effect was added to when my granddaughter chimed in on her side, since I can rarely understand anything that kid says anyway. However, when Jess is upset, having Little Sharon around is like having our own tiny, incomprehensible Greek chorus. It’s kind of funny, but only adds to the confusion.

Eventually, she calmed down enough to speak coherently, and explained that, thanks to me, now she looked stupid to those 27 people, and that she didn’t appreciate it at all. Unfortunately, lulled by her normal good nature, I thought she was kidding, and laughed (strike 5). Big mistake, perhaps my biggest of the day. It set her off on an entirely new tirade, as incomprehensible as the previous one. After she had calmed down (again), I told her not to worry about it, that it happened to me all the time. This did not serve to make her feel any better. She pointed out to me (again) that she didn’t appreciate being made to look stupid, that’s what she’s got me around for. I mounted a counter-attack, based on her inference that I’m supposed to look stupid so that she doesn’t have to, but my heart wasn’t really in it, due to the unassailable logic of her position. I am obviously much better at stupid than she is, so I didn’t push it. She, of course, was not amused by my pretended ire (strike 6).

I told her not to worry about it, that I’d take care of it when I got home from class, and she agreed vehemently that that would be best. When I got home however, she, being the dutiful and persistent woman that she is, had done it herself. Schmuck that I am, I noticed a mistake in the times she had listed, and, after I had corrected it, told her about it (strike 7. Some people just never learn), reigniting the flame of her displeasure (it burns rarely, but when it does, it burns hot). At this point, it was not looking good for the home team, so I decided to go ahead and say goodbye to you good people, in case I never have a another chance, so again, Goodbye. Of course, when I started to write this, I had told her that I was going to work on a paper for school. She came in to ask me about something, and saw what I was really doing. Again, she was not amused. I tried to assuage her anger by telling her that, as far as anyone knows, I’m the idiot, since the Facebook message is in my name and nowhere did she identify herself. I really thought that would do it, right up to the point where she pointed out that they would only think that until I posted this (strike 8). So now I’m doomed, hoist by my own petard, because of my loyalty and obligation to your entertainment and edification. Mom always said I was my own worst enemy, and she was right, at least up to now. I hope you’re happy. If you don’t see me again, think kindly of me for, after all, this is really all your fault.