Whatup, everybody? My old coworkers told me I need to blog again (now that I'm jobless) so they can keep up with me and the little dude. Since I always blog more when I'm unemployed, it seemed a completely natural idea. So, we'll start with a round of stream of consciousness randomness. You know, for old times' sake.
I'm annoyed by hearing the names of radio stations or local sports teams in songs on the radio. It makes me cringe. Were artists running out of ways to sell out? Because this is crazy. Changing your poetry? Yeesh.
The first time I heard this "regionalization" was in the Terri Clark song, "I Wanna Do it All." The lyric was "visit Paris in the Fall, watch the [Lakers/Colts/Cubs/Packers] play ball." That was cheesy, but fairly harmless. It seems the new trend is to work local radio stations' call letters into your song. THAT just kind of gives me the willies.
Just thought I'd share.
Showing posts with label what the ?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what the ?. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Saturday, September 13, 2008
A Boy Named Boot
Now that we know we're having a boy, I've been paying more attention to guys' names. And JUST IN time for football season. For some ungodly reason, Bryan was watching Purdue play the Oregon Ducks today. Normally, he's more interested in SEC games, but I think he was texting a friend who was at the game or something.
I heard one of the announcers mention Justin Roper. I'm all, "Justin Ropers? I have a pair of those!"
Then hubby told me it's Oregon's quarterback's NAME. For real.
Awkward.
At first I thought, "Maybe he's from a big metropolitan area and his parents don't know cowboy boots from driving moccasins. In that case, he probably wasn't teased about it." Fine. Harmless. Then, I found out he's from Buford, Georgia. I used to live near that area. I estimate the kid got pantsed before his third birthday.
He seems to be doing fine - getting an education, great athlete, etc. But does anyone else think this name was a little negligent?
Shamefully, at the first test of character I proved no better than the schoolyard hazers. While I pondered the possible effects an unusual name could have on a person's psyche, Justin went down on the field. I yelled, "Oh my God! Somebody call a cobbler!"
I heard one of the announcers mention Justin Roper. I'm all, "Justin Ropers? I have a pair of those!"
Then hubby told me it's Oregon's quarterback's NAME. For real.
Justin Roper, meet Justin Roper.
Awkward.
At first I thought, "Maybe he's from a big metropolitan area and his parents don't know cowboy boots from driving moccasins. In that case, he probably wasn't teased about it." Fine. Harmless. Then, I found out he's from Buford, Georgia. I used to live near that area. I estimate the kid got pantsed before his third birthday.
He seems to be doing fine - getting an education, great athlete, etc. But does anyone else think this name was a little negligent?
Shamefully, at the first test of character I proved no better than the schoolyard hazers. While I pondered the possible effects an unusual name could have on a person's psyche, Justin went down on the field. I yelled, "Oh my God! Somebody call a cobbler!"
Monday, June 16, 2008
Might I Have a Sip of Your Tasty Beverage?
Recently, the husband and I went to a local pizza restaurant. Before the owner rang up our order he warned us, "Our soda machine is out of order; would you like a drink from the cooler?" Bryan said, "Yeah, sure."
You know that giggly feeling you get when you know something someone else doesn't, and you know when they realize what you know, it's gonna be, like, awesome? I'd seen the cooler on the way in. It wasn't full of Coke products (an impossible dream north of the Mason-Dixon), or even Pepsi products. It was full of Marsh brand soda.
My excitement made time freeze as he slow-motion turned to the cooler... I saw him see the soda... then, no wait, that can't be right... is that really??... right here in a restaurant? Then his face registered the full horror, and he said, "Aww, man! I feel like I'm eating at my cousin's house."
We had a healthy debate about why a restaurant would possibly stock a cooler with generic soda. First, this pizza joint does a lot of takeout business, but they also have seating for about 30 in their dining room. It seems like a costly risk, when you could just pay a few cents more for real drinks. Don't worry; our story did have a happy ending. (The pizza was fantastic, and the owner doesn't even look surprised when you bring in a big gulp from the gas station next door.)
I've never had good generic soda, but I've had a few good laughs at their names. Since supermarkets are regional, and all brands have their different spun-off brand names, I thought it might be fun to share our favorite generic soda names.
In Georgia, I lived near a FoodMax. FoodMax's generic brand was called "Southern Home" and they worked some variation of the name into each of their drinks:
Dr Pepper = Dr. S
7-Up = Southern Up
Some of the fruity ones get fun, too. Like when the off-brand starts trying to squeeze too damn many words onto the can. Like "lemon lime-o super sizzle berry blast." I mean, that just sounds too exciting to drink, then it goes flat before you get it to your lips.
Let us have it, commenters. Let's hear your funniest off-brand soda names. You can even give us a quality report if you managed to choke down any of it.
You know that giggly feeling you get when you know something someone else doesn't, and you know when they realize what you know, it's gonna be, like, awesome? I'd seen the cooler on the way in. It wasn't full of Coke products (an impossible dream north of the Mason-Dixon), or even Pepsi products. It was full of Marsh brand soda.
My excitement made time freeze as he slow-motion turned to the cooler... I saw him see the soda... then, no wait, that can't be right... is that really??... right here in a restaurant? Then his face registered the full horror, and he said, "Aww, man! I feel like I'm eating at my cousin's house."
We had a healthy debate about why a restaurant would possibly stock a cooler with generic soda. First, this pizza joint does a lot of takeout business, but they also have seating for about 30 in their dining room. It seems like a costly risk, when you could just pay a few cents more for real drinks. Don't worry; our story did have a happy ending. (The pizza was fantastic, and the owner doesn't even look surprised when you bring in a big gulp from the gas station next door.)
I've never had good generic soda, but I've had a few good laughs at their names. Since supermarkets are regional, and all brands have their different spun-off brand names, I thought it might be fun to share our favorite generic soda names.
In Georgia, I lived near a FoodMax. FoodMax's generic brand was called "Southern Home" and they worked some variation of the name into each of their drinks:
Dr Pepper = Dr. S
7-Up = Southern Up
Some of the fruity ones get fun, too. Like when the off-brand starts trying to squeeze too damn many words onto the can. Like "lemon lime-o super sizzle berry blast." I mean, that just sounds too exciting to drink, then it goes flat before you get it to your lips.
Let us have it, commenters. Let's hear your funniest off-brand soda names. You can even give us a quality report if you managed to choke down any of it.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Brown County Doughnuts
I like it here in Indiana - I really do. The people are nice, the weather is (mostly) mild, and they're even getting a few decent barbeque restaurants. But, every now and then I run into something that completely offends my southern sensibilities.
While dining at a new barbeque restaurant, I found something on my plate that did just that. They call them "Brown County Biscuits." I've met these poorly named pastries before. They are yummy little discs of deep-fried dough rolled in cinnamon sugar and served with apple butter.
Apparently, these little culinary wonders hail from Brown County, Indiana which is right where the ginormous glacier that flattened the midwest stopped, leaving a lovely little mountain community. You can imagine how the flatlanders flock down there when the leaves change. Our leaves are pretty, but you literally can't see the forest for the trees. It's flat up here, folks. When they plow the corn, you can stand on a dining chair and see the next county.
I have no beef with these tasty little deep-fried devils, but I have a semantics problem of major proportions:
People, I cannot stress this enough; they are NOT biscuits! I know what biscuits are. I can make them from scratch blindfolded. Biscuits are baked - end of story. They are also a flexible food item - they're equally fantastic with supper as they are with breakfast. They complement both sweet and savory, and I will not stop enjoying them even if modern science discovers white flour makes you grow extra toes.
These Brown County Biscuits are what we call homemade doughnuts in the deep south. Here's the rule people: if you can't eat them with gravy, they are not biscuits. Thank you for your time and attention to this important matter.
While dining at a new barbeque restaurant, I found something on my plate that did just that. They call them "Brown County Biscuits." I've met these poorly named pastries before. They are yummy little discs of deep-fried dough rolled in cinnamon sugar and served with apple butter.
Apparently, these little culinary wonders hail from Brown County, Indiana which is right where the ginormous glacier that flattened the midwest stopped, leaving a lovely little mountain community. You can imagine how the flatlanders flock down there when the leaves change. Our leaves are pretty, but you literally can't see the forest for the trees. It's flat up here, folks. When they plow the corn, you can stand on a dining chair and see the next county.
I have no beef with these tasty little deep-fried devils, but I have a semantics problem of major proportions:
People, I cannot stress this enough; they are NOT biscuits! I know what biscuits are. I can make them from scratch blindfolded. Biscuits are baked - end of story. They are also a flexible food item - they're equally fantastic with supper as they are with breakfast. They complement both sweet and savory, and I will not stop enjoying them even if modern science discovers white flour makes you grow extra toes.
These Brown County Biscuits are what we call homemade doughnuts in the deep south. Here's the rule people: if you can't eat them with gravy, they are not biscuits. Thank you for your time and attention to this important matter.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
What I Think
What is up, Internet? It's been a while. How's your health?
I left the last tagline up way too long. But, you're not thoroughly neglecting your website if you change the tagline, and I don't believe in doing anything halfway. The new one was my humble entry in another blogger's "Six Word Memoirs" contest.
I was honored to be co-winner of the "Invisible Internet People" category of this competition, and eagerly await my unspecified prize at an unspecified time. That's not exactly true; Lori's official winner e-mail stated that she would send it "you know, whenever I get around to it." You gotta admire the honesty. This chick is a much better writer than I am, and God knows she posts more often. So, if you like this, you'll love this.
OK - the following is NOT a political rant. I'm not suggesting you vote for a particular candidate. That's not what this is about. Think for yourself, and vote your conscience. Recently, I received an email forward that completely baffled me.
The subject line "What do you think?" serves as this message's first defense against the delete button. Two lines in, my jaw dropped and it got a little hard to breathe. This email presented several arguments supporting why the "O.W." believes Barack Obama to be the Anti-Christ.
This post will, no doubt, get lengthy, so I won't copy and paste the message here. I'll just give you a list of the message's claims. After each one, I'll tell you what I think.
In the spirit of the six-word memior, I'll sum this up with a six-word response to the Original Writer:
What would Jesus do?
Not this.
I left the last tagline up way too long. But, you're not thoroughly neglecting your website if you change the tagline, and I don't believe in doing anything halfway. The new one was my humble entry in another blogger's "Six Word Memoirs" contest.
I was honored to be co-winner of the "Invisible Internet People" category of this competition, and eagerly await my unspecified prize at an unspecified time. That's not exactly true; Lori's official winner e-mail stated that she would send it "you know, whenever I get around to it." You gotta admire the honesty. This chick is a much better writer than I am, and God knows she posts more often. So, if you like this, you'll love this.
OK - the following is NOT a political rant. I'm not suggesting you vote for a particular candidate. That's not what this is about. Think for yourself, and vote your conscience. Recently, I received an email forward that completely baffled me.
DISCLAIMER: Before I go any further, it's important that I note that I LOVE the person who forwarded me this e-mail. He did not write it, he simply forwarded it on. I've also reformed my old ways and no longer hold senders accountable for their forwards, so, no hard feelings, dude. The following rant is NOT targeting the forwarder, just the ORIGINAL WRITER. To avoid confusion, let's call this person, "O.W." (Feel free to pronounce it, "Oh Dubyuh" in your mind as you read.)
Also, the subject line was "What Do You Think?" Since this website is my little soapbox, I'm gonna hop on and express my opinion. There are many versions of this floating around, but I'm just addressing the one that hit my inbox.
The subject line "What do you think?" serves as this message's first defense against the delete button. Two lines in, my jaw dropped and it got a little hard to breathe. This email presented several arguments supporting why the "O.W." believes Barack Obama to be the Anti-Christ.
This post will, no doubt, get lengthy, so I won't copy and paste the message here. I'll just give you a list of the message's claims. After each one, I'll tell you what I think.
- It called our nation "pathetic," followed by something about bleeding-heart, secular liberals
There's really no need to address this directly. Keep reading and you'll figure out where I stand.
- It uses the Senator's middle name, "Hussein."
This one's always fun. It comes with the built-in argument: "hey, that's really his name." We all know the purpose of that comment is to label him a terrorist. Did you choose your middle name, Mr. O.W.? Didn't think so. (I apologize for assuming the writer is male. That's just how I see him in my imagination. For the record, I also picture him in a white, pointy hat. But that's just, you know, what I think.)
- It states that Senator Obama is a Muslim and "takes great care to conceal it by mentioning he went to Catholic school."
As long as I've hopped aboard the speculation train, let's just ride it to the next stop: I'm guessing O.W. was equally worked up over whether or not John F. Kennedy would become the Pope's puppet in the White House. Remember? Catholics used to fall subject to hate campaigns back in the day. Kinda interesting that since we've moved past that societal hurdle, it's now feasible to use Catholicism as a cover for the newest religion it's trendy to hate.
- It states that we are at war with the "Muslim nation"
Islam is a peaceful religion. It has a few radical wackos that are very dangerous. In case you haven't noticed, Christianity has some of those, too. I pray that their form of terror doesn't go any farther than writing fear-driven, hate-laden e-mails and forwarding them around.
- the message states that Senator Obama's "mother married a RADICAL Muslim."
What? O.W. is calling someone a religious radical?
Hey, O.W. The kettle called. He referred to you as "the pot." Yeah, AND he says "you're black, too." I wouldn't take that shit if I were you.
- O.W. states that Senator Obama is the Anti-Christ.
OK, I can tolerate a lot of name-calling, but labeling a fellow human being the Anti-Christ is a little too Anti-Love-Thy-Neighbor for my comfort level.
- It says that Snopes.com confirms all this stuff as factual.
Snopes is a website that debunks urban legends. O.W. has undoubtedly received links to this site from his grandkids after he sent them some other outlandish shit. The link in the email takes you to the site's front page. O.W. obviously hopes you won't click on the "politics" link, then the "Barack Obama" link, because once you do, you'll see a whole bunch of "red light" icons signifying that these claims have been debunked. If you're interested, here's a link straight to a very informative article.
- It states that Senator Obama was sworn into Congress on the Quran.
Senator, why don't you take this one?
In the spirit of the six-word memior, I'll sum this up with a six-word response to the Original Writer:
What would Jesus do?
Not this.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A New Development
Turns out the barefoot part is entirely optional.Yes, the line is fairly faint, but a second test confirmed that Bryan and I are expecting our first!
Now you know why I haven't written in a while. I've had almost nothing on my mind besides this, and key family members had to be told before they ran into it on a blog or something. Here's the lowdown: we weren't trying (in the clinical, taking-temperatures-and-charting-stuff sense) we had just stopped preventing. We decided to give nature a year before we started the taking-temperatures-and-charting-stuff routine. I got pregnant in a month. No joke. Bryan's feeling more than a little proud of that.
My first doctor's appointment is Nov. 30th, so I'm waiting. The most rudimentary way to find a due date yields July 4th, but we may know more after visiting the doctor. At this point I feel great, get VERY sleepy at about 9:30, and love love love me some fruit. Mangoes and cantaloupes are heavenly.
I promise to try to write about things other than pregnancy from time to time. I said promise. But I also said try.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Un Signo Di Dio
I've never had a Virgin Mary in the Glass experience or seen Jesus in my toast. However, today I looked down at the cord hanging from my guitar pickup and saw this:
I know, right? A freaking treble clef!
(My lips to Gods ears: I didn't contrive this in any way. I just saw it, lay down the guitar and grabbed the camera.)
I'd be shunning my duties as a snake oil peddler if I didn't assign some heartfelt personal significance to this, so here goes:
I have a crazy goal to sing an original song in front of people who aren't kin to me. I find this tremendously scary, but in a moment of stupidity I confessed to my husband that I'd like to do it at an upcoming open mic night at Barley Island Brewing Company. Have I mentioned my husband doesn't let things go?
You non-locals (shout out to Wisconsin, California, and Texas) do what you do best and keep commenting here. You totally put the locals to shame.
Sigh. If my supernatural musical phenomenon means anything, it's time to stop procrastinating and write a song. Holy crap, I hope I can do this.
I know, right? A freaking treble clef!(My lips to Gods ears: I didn't contrive this in any way. I just saw it, lay down the guitar and grabbed the camera.)
If you didn't have music lessons as a kid, here's something for comparison:
It's no Shroud of Turin, but I don't think you can get a closer re-creation with a single strand of anything.
It's no Shroud of Turin, but I don't think you can get a closer re-creation with a single strand of anything.
I'd be shunning my duties as a snake oil peddler if I didn't assign some heartfelt personal significance to this, so here goes:
I have a crazy goal to sing an original song in front of people who aren't kin to me. I find this tremendously scary, but in a moment of stupidity I confessed to my husband that I'd like to do it at an upcoming open mic night at Barley Island Brewing Company. Have I mentioned my husband doesn't let things go?
- A reason this is scary: it's musician appreciation night at Barley Island's open mic. There will be lots of songwriters there. Yikes.
- Another reason this is scary: I've not yet written a song I deem good enough to sing in front of non-relatives. It's four days from now. This is the only day I have off work between now and Sunday.
How can you help? Glad you asked: If you're a local MRF reader, come to Barley Island Sunday night around 6:30 or so and clap a lot. A diverse group of local acts comes out to this, so chances are good you'll hear something you like. Plus, their tasty Flat Top Wheat Ale does a nice job of taking the edge off stuff you don't like.
You non-locals (shout out to Wisconsin, California, and Texas) do what you do best and keep commenting here. You totally put the locals to shame.
Sigh. If my supernatural musical phenomenon means anything, it's time to stop procrastinating and write a song. Holy crap, I hope I can do this.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
How The Mighty Have Fallen
Today is the first day of Fall, and the umpteenth day of football season. I am truly a football widow, but Bryan is sensitive enough keep an eye out for things to keep me semi-engaged through the season. But yesterday, a dream was shattered.
Maybe not a dream; more like a fantasy. Nonetheless, it was a good one and it's gone.
Until two seasons ago, I had a great reason to watch UGA football:
David Pollack.
(I know, right?)
Bryan started the whole thing. He was all, "Hey, Georgia's got this defensive end I really think you'll like..." The man doesn't care who he has to pimp out to get me watching football. The three of us had a great couple of years. Then David went to play for the Bengals and suddenly he was yesterday's news to Bryan. (Nothing personal, you just have to be a Cowboy to stay on Bryan's radar after you leave UGA.)
Team affiliation didn't matter one bit to me! I remained a David Pollack fan, no matter what colors he wore. I was devastated when he suffered a neck injury last year during the Bengals v. Browns game. I feared my little married woman crush was at an end.Two weeks ago he came back into my life via CSTV's show SEC Tailgate. In a dress shirt, no less.
I was so happy to see him again! The first week he didn't say very much. Sadly, this week I found out why.
While describing what it was like for an opposing team to play Alabama in Tuscaloosa he said something like, "When we walked out to get a feel for the field the student section was full. They let us know they were there; they were yelling explicits at us."
Explicits, David. Really? Seriously?
Suddenly that was it for me. I know, I know. He's a great athlete, and from all accounts a great person. Even the media hasn't dug up any dirt on this guy. He probably doesn't know the technical term for bad words because he doesn't use them, but I'm kind of a hardass when it comes to grammar. I'm not sure why it affected me so strongly, but apparently I can't sustain a harmless married woman crush if the object of that crush doesn't have a good vocabulary. It's enough to make me use EXPLETIVES.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Kitty Abuse
I walked in from work and went straight to the bathroom. When I opened the door I heard a frantic little "mew!" and saw a blur that could only have been my cat escaping from being closed up all day in a 5'x4' half-bath. I realized that was probably about the nine thousandth "mew" she'd uttered that day.
If this were a complete accident it would be easier to forgive myself. Earlier that morning, I was running late for work and Ren ran (say that 3 times fast -ren ran ren ran ren ran) into the tiny downstairs bathroom and refused to come out. My pleading with her only solidified her resolve to stay until physically removed. I didn't have time to coax her out, so I thought I'd shut her in there for a few minutes while I finished packing my lunch. The plan was to humanely communicate the hard reality of being trapped in a small room that apparently looks so glamorous to fiesty kitties-about-town. I would go back two minutes later, open the door, and the aformentioned k-a-t (see what I did there? you like that dont you?) darts out quick as a flash. That was the plan.
Only in my rush I, umm, forgot about the letting her out part. Oops. I just hope she didn't spend her solitary confinement plotting some elaborate revenge. I'm sleeping with one eye open just in case.
If this were a complete accident it would be easier to forgive myself. Earlier that morning, I was running late for work and Ren ran (say that 3 times fast -ren ran ren ran ren ran) into the tiny downstairs bathroom and refused to come out. My pleading with her only solidified her resolve to stay until physically removed. I didn't have time to coax her out, so I thought I'd shut her in there for a few minutes while I finished packing my lunch. The plan was to humanely communicate the hard reality of being trapped in a small room that apparently looks so glamorous to fiesty kitties-about-town. I would go back two minutes later, open the door, and the aformentioned k-a-t (see what I did there? you like that dont you?) darts out quick as a flash. That was the plan.
Only in my rush I, umm, forgot about the letting her out part. Oops. I just hope she didn't spend her solitary confinement plotting some elaborate revenge. I'm sleeping with one eye open just in case.
Friday, August 24, 2007
All Fired Up
Thanks for all your comments on Profile Change; they were very helpful. My logic for posting the following is that it happened in front of a lot of people. I mean, you can't really "go public" with something that happened in public, can you?
I've posted before that I lead worship for one of my church's services. It's a small service. Only about 30 of our 100 members attend and although we call ourselves contemporary, we're not. We're more of a traditional service with electronic media and a couple of praise songs thrown in the middle, but we do our best.
In our sanctuary we have two candles on the altar on either side of the cross. That's not unusual - you'll find that setup in most Christian churches in the U.S. In our tradition, we light the candles to symbolize the presence of the Holy Spirit- a living, active God present with us here on Earth. Important note: we don't think God's presence depends on the candles or anything, it's just a symbol. It's one I really like though, because I like a visual reminder that God is with us. I gotta be honest, if God just shoved us out onto the path alone I probably couldn't do this Christian thing, not even in the hit-and-miss fashion I manage now.
At the later service, the acolytes "bring in the light" wearing white robes and carrying these long goldish, lighter thingies with wicks. (They have some fancy name, but I don't know it.) At the end of the service, they also carry the light out, symbolizing our duty to carry God's light out into the world.
We're less formal at the earlier service, so the ushers do it. They've been forgetting lately, and two Sundays ago I had some time before the service started. I noticed the candles weren't lit, so I lit them, and made a joke to the pianist. I smiled and said, "I've figured out exactly how Methodist I am... I'm just Methodist enough that it bugs me when the candles aren't lit." We had a little laugh and got on with worship.
Sermon time came around, and the pastor listed all the things we turn into idols and worship instead of God. Then he said, "For instance, we don't worship candles, we worship a living, moving God." Then he really layed into the whole candle thing. He told a story about how the Holy Spirit is producing signs and wonders in Africa, and the African people don't worry about things like candles. They don't have a beautiful building like we do, but they worship with more joy than most of us Americans can muster.
Since I lead the hymns and liturgies, I sit facing the congregation. Unfortunately, when I get really really mad, I cry. I couldn't stop tears from sliding down my face. The whole time. I tried to spin it as spiritual, but it was pure anger. He mentioned lighting the candles two more times. He seemed to be circling around and tying all the points of his sermon together with those blasted candles. When we missed a scripture and he went back to it, he turned to me and said, "That's how Methodist we are." Nice.
At the end, I got up and led the closing hymn that he chose. When the last two words of it were "eternal flame" he felt compelled to speak again before the benediction to remind us that we don't worship an eternal flame, we worship a living God. I guess he couldn't have the centuries-old hymn of the church giving me any comfort.
The funny thing is, that whole "living God" thing - it's the whole reason the candles mean something to me. It's a reminder of exactly that! I don't think that God is absent when the candles aren't lit anymore than I think I'm not married when leave my ring at home because I took it off to knead the biscuit dough. It's just a symbol of something that's always true.
I admit, lighting or not lighting candles is a pretty insignificant thing to argue about. Ironically, I totally agree with the point of his message. However, there were kinder ways to convey that message than throwing me under the theological bus in a setting where I couldn't comment.
Bottom line: I like to worship differently than he does. That does NOT automatically make my worship style wrong.
I've posted before that I lead worship for one of my church's services. It's a small service. Only about 30 of our 100 members attend and although we call ourselves contemporary, we're not. We're more of a traditional service with electronic media and a couple of praise songs thrown in the middle, but we do our best.
In our sanctuary we have two candles on the altar on either side of the cross. That's not unusual - you'll find that setup in most Christian churches in the U.S. In our tradition, we light the candles to symbolize the presence of the Holy Spirit- a living, active God present with us here on Earth. Important note: we don't think God's presence depends on the candles or anything, it's just a symbol. It's one I really like though, because I like a visual reminder that God is with us. I gotta be honest, if God just shoved us out onto the path alone I probably couldn't do this Christian thing, not even in the hit-and-miss fashion I manage now.
At the later service, the acolytes "bring in the light" wearing white robes and carrying these long goldish, lighter thingies with wicks. (They have some fancy name, but I don't know it.) At the end of the service, they also carry the light out, symbolizing our duty to carry God's light out into the world.
We're less formal at the earlier service, so the ushers do it. They've been forgetting lately, and two Sundays ago I had some time before the service started. I noticed the candles weren't lit, so I lit them, and made a joke to the pianist. I smiled and said, "I've figured out exactly how Methodist I am... I'm just Methodist enough that it bugs me when the candles aren't lit." We had a little laugh and got on with worship.
Sermon time came around, and the pastor listed all the things we turn into idols and worship instead of God. Then he said, "For instance, we don't worship candles, we worship a living, moving God." Then he really layed into the whole candle thing. He told a story about how the Holy Spirit is producing signs and wonders in Africa, and the African people don't worry about things like candles. They don't have a beautiful building like we do, but they worship with more joy than most of us Americans can muster.
Since I lead the hymns and liturgies, I sit facing the congregation. Unfortunately, when I get really really mad, I cry. I couldn't stop tears from sliding down my face. The whole time. I tried to spin it as spiritual, but it was pure anger. He mentioned lighting the candles two more times. He seemed to be circling around and tying all the points of his sermon together with those blasted candles. When we missed a scripture and he went back to it, he turned to me and said, "That's how Methodist we are." Nice.
At the end, I got up and led the closing hymn that he chose. When the last two words of it were "eternal flame" he felt compelled to speak again before the benediction to remind us that we don't worship an eternal flame, we worship a living God. I guess he couldn't have the centuries-old hymn of the church giving me any comfort.
The funny thing is, that whole "living God" thing - it's the whole reason the candles mean something to me. It's a reminder of exactly that! I don't think that God is absent when the candles aren't lit anymore than I think I'm not married when leave my ring at home because I took it off to knead the biscuit dough. It's just a symbol of something that's always true.
I admit, lighting or not lighting candles is a pretty insignificant thing to argue about. Ironically, I totally agree with the point of his message. However, there were kinder ways to convey that message than throwing me under the theological bus in a setting where I couldn't comment.
Bottom line: I like to worship differently than he does. That does NOT automatically make my worship style wrong.
Chillin'
Today is my day off. Boy, it was time for a day off. I'll put it this way: I never have an urge to watch "The View" anymore. When I wanna listen to a bunch of chicks bitching at each other, I just go to work. I mean, seriously.
So, today has been pure chill time. It's almost 3:30, and I'm still in my pj's watching Flight of the Conchords clips on you tube. I caught a chick flick and ate a couple of cinnamon rolls. I didn't have to listen to any fighting. It was pure bliss.
Now if I could only figure out a way to keep my coworkers from disturbing my peace. I'm thinking paintball guns...
So, today has been pure chill time. It's almost 3:30, and I'm still in my pj's watching Flight of the Conchords clips on you tube. I caught a chick flick and ate a couple of cinnamon rolls. I didn't have to listen to any fighting. It was pure bliss.
Now if I could only figure out a way to keep my coworkers from disturbing my peace. I'm thinking paintball guns...
Monday, August 6, 2007
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Mild Abusement
Tonight at McDonald's (which is kind of a splurge-treat these days) I grabbed my drink cup, and Bryan handed me his. I said, "What do you want?" to which he replied, "Diet Coke." As I left the line, he smacked me soundly on the ass.
As I got our drinks, I saw a biker guy from our fair hamlet laugh appreciatively. Next, I noticed my dearly beloved laughing as well.
My thought process: "Hmmm..what's this funny feeling I'm having? I don't mind him asking me to get his drink... we get things for each other a lot. I don't mind him smacking my ass... we do that a lot, too... it's kind of our thing. WAIT - it's the rapid succession of the two events (AND biker guy's response) that triggered the fire behind my eyes!"
Moral: if you ever want your wife to get your Coke again, don't smack her booty in front of an appreciative Harley driver. Then for GOD'S SAKE, don't follow it with a nod and wink.
THE END.
As I got our drinks, I saw a biker guy from our fair hamlet laugh appreciatively. Next, I noticed my dearly beloved laughing as well.
My thought process: "Hmmm..what's this funny feeling I'm having? I don't mind him asking me to get his drink... we get things for each other a lot. I don't mind him smacking my ass... we do that a lot, too... it's kind of our thing. WAIT - it's the rapid succession of the two events (AND biker guy's response) that triggered the fire behind my eyes!"
Moral: if you ever want your wife to get your Coke again, don't smack her booty in front of an appreciative Harley driver. Then for GOD'S SAKE, don't follow it with a nod and wink.
THE END.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
And You're the Only Bait In Town
It's the 20th Anniversary of the Discovery Channel's Shark Week. I don't know if you've had the pleasure, but shark week is some sick twisted shit.
I know tons of folks are fascinated with sharks. I have a diver friend who looks forward to this programming all year. But for me, let's just say Colin Farrell would have to host it for me to watch. Nude. I mean, Colin Farrell would have to be nude, not me. But even then I'd only watch until the shark footage started.
Sharks (like Colin Farrell) are beautiful creatures. It's amazing to watch them glide through the water with equal amounts of grace and power; but all shark shows have a segment on shark attacks. If you endure the gory accounts you'll see some nut job with his leg torn off DEFENDING the shark's actions. In one interview, a surfer who (barely) survived an attack described it like a spiritual experience: "Sharks don't mean to hurt people," he pleaded with the audience. "You must realize they have no arms or hands like you and I. They must explore their world with their teeth."
Okay, I'm cool with that until my leg becomes the most interesting part of their world. I admit, I'm hesitant about sacrificing body parts to broaden another vertibrate's horizons. The shark swallowed your FOOT, dude. He wasn't taking a class at the Y.
However, Mr. Hang Five's reflections gave me a whole new perspective. Survival of the Fittest has never made so much sense. Now I, too, root for the shark. If the human herd had to be thinned, de-legging Stubby the Surfer was a solid start.
I know tons of folks are fascinated with sharks. I have a diver friend who looks forward to this programming all year. But for me, let's just say Colin Farrell would have to host it for me to watch. Nude. I mean, Colin Farrell would have to be nude, not me. But even then I'd only watch until the shark footage started.
Sharks (like Colin Farrell) are beautiful creatures. It's amazing to watch them glide through the water with equal amounts of grace and power; but all shark shows have a segment on shark attacks. If you endure the gory accounts you'll see some nut job with his leg torn off DEFENDING the shark's actions. In one interview, a surfer who (barely) survived an attack described it like a spiritual experience: "Sharks don't mean to hurt people," he pleaded with the audience. "You must realize they have no arms or hands like you and I. They must explore their world with their teeth."
Okay, I'm cool with that until my leg becomes the most interesting part of their world. I admit, I'm hesitant about sacrificing body parts to broaden another vertibrate's horizons. The shark swallowed your FOOT, dude. He wasn't taking a class at the Y.
However, Mr. Hang Five's reflections gave me a whole new perspective. Survival of the Fittest has never made so much sense. Now I, too, root for the shark. If the human herd had to be thinned, de-legging Stubby the Surfer was a solid start.
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