Lent, Dammit

I am the youngest child in my family, and for a long time, I was known as the gullible one. Rumor that Mom and Dad were putting us all up for adoption? I believed it. Story about a puppy living under my sister Kaki’s mattress and existing on peanut butter? I think I asked to see that damn puppy every day for a year. To my mind, it wasn’t as much that I was gullible as I was thoroughly clueless, wandering around in a fog, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

So it’s no surprise that I was especially susceptible to the things I learned at Sunday school and church. World created in 6 days? Check. Jonah swallowed by big fish? You betcha. Loaves and fishes? Totally feasible. I have never had an issue with these things, because I learned them the same way I learned that the sky was blue and that anyone could ride a two-wheeled bike with a little balance and bravery. The most compelling stories for me, though, the ones that really kept me up at night, were the ones about Perfect Jesus. Washing lepers’ feet. Expelling sinners at the temple. That damn Sermon on the Mount. Jesus was a hard act to live up to, but it was my understanding that rules were rules, and we’d better give it at least a decent effort.

Which leads me to Lent. In my house, Lent meant two extra days of going to mass: on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday (and maybe Holy Thursday, but that seems excessive, even for my mom). It meant meatless Fridays. But most of all, it meant the Lenten promise: giving something up. Why do Catholics do it? The reason explained to me was that Jesus went up on a mountain to prepare for turning his life over to service to others. He stayed on the mountain, fasting, for forty days and nights, and while there, the Devil tried to tempt him, and Jesus resisted, though the temptation was great. Like, Reese Peanut Butter Egg great. So we try to do the same, both in honor of Jesus and because, as Catholics, we are supposed to strive to be better than we are. It was honed into me again and again that we shouldn’t give up something easy, like, fruitcake. It had to be something significant. Something that would test us during this time, and something we had to genuinely struggle to resist.

I can’t remember what I gave up when I was young. I’m certain that I broke my Lenten promise, but every year as an adult, I have always given up swearing. Now, that may not seem like a big deal to you, but to me, swearing is akin to breathing. Swearing turns ordinary sentences into a mystery garden of surprise and laughter. For example, why would I say, “Your baby is so cute!” when I could say, “Your damn baby is so cute?” Which one is funnier to you? All the same, my mother is no fucking liar when she says, “Swearing is socially unacceptable.” I agree. And it’s immature, too. So every year, right around the time my swearing has gotten out of control, I do what I can to curb it, and the nix is in on the potty mouth.

My friends do not enjoy this, and they try to devise rules where I can swear without technically being in trouble with the Lord. “Say frick,” they suggest. “Try motherfudger.” No motherfudging way. To give up something for Lent means to give it up in mind and in spirit, and no getting around it with technicalities, like rhyming substitute words. And no almost-swear words, either, like “crap” and “brat.” And none of that Goddamn taking the Lord’s name in vain, either. No more shouting, “Jesus Christ!” or even the more formal, “Jesus H. Christ!” Not even, “Jeebus McCriminy!” Apparently, God is equally offended by all of it.

Now, I will confess ahead of time that swearing is my biggest struggle. Come Easter, every year, I tell myself that I will continue my clean language. That is sort of the point of Lent – to give something up and change yourself in the process, so that we can all live better damn lives. I do well in April. May is okay. June is a fucking struggle. July….screw July. And when Lent rolls around the following year, I am back to having the mouth of an angry drill sergeant, and I make my promise again, and vow to do better this time.

So bear with me, friends, as I make my way through Lent. It starts on March 9th and goes until Easter. It’s a long forty days, friends.

When You're Gone...

I love my son, and I love being alone, two realities that have clashed for the past eighteen years. So, although I know I’m going to be sad when Jude hits the road in August for college, I have also been quite vocal about how it’s going to be when he’s gone.

“When you’re gone,” I tell him, “the fridge won’t be empty, and the sink won’t be full of dirty dishes every time I walk into the kitchen.”

“When you’re gone,” I say, “I will be able to walk past your room and not want to throw up from the mess.”

“When you’re gone,” I advise him, “I will not constantly be tripping over your collection of size 13 shoes that you’ve thoughtfully left strewn throughout the house.”

But lately, I’ve realized another thing: when he’s gone, I’m going to miss him.

It all came rushing at me this week when I got an email asking me to write a couple of words of encouragement to Jude for the “Applause” section of his spring musical program. (PS, the musical is The Secret Garden, March 3-5 at Grandview Heights High School. Go to www.grandviewschools.org for ticket information and more details!) Every year, I write something dumb and non-emotional, such as, “Hope you’re wearing clean socks! Break a leg, love Mom” or something like that. I mean, let’s be honest, I read through the parent comments every year and make fun of the ones that are all like, “Dear Chaslywick, ever since you started reading at age 2, your dad and I knew you were going to be a star. This year, when you won the state spelling bee, volunteered to help blind Eskimos and organized the teacher appreciation banquet, we were so proud of you. Enjoy Harvard next year, Love Momma and Poppy.” But, wouldn’t you know it, when it came time for me to write something for my son, to sum up the fact that this is the end….I had a hard time staying away from the dramatic.

This is the last time I am going to see him in a high school musical, and the beginning of a lot of ends for us – last swimming banquet, last choir concert, last track meet, last day of school, last time seeing friends and parents we’ve known since Kindergarten….last time he makes me laugh with his baby alien voice, last time he gets the things off of the high shelf for me...last time I can have a hug on demand…

And so, for the last time, I wrote out my parent appreciation comments. I reminded him of all of the different roles he’s played in his four years of high school, and told him he had always been a joy to watch on stage. And when he reads it, he won’t know that, as I wrote those words, I had tears in my eyes. He won’t know that, when I say that he is a joy to watch, I mean that he is a joy in every moment of my life. He won’t know that, although I am looking forward to having space and silence in my home, that I also genuinely do not know how I am going to exist without him in that space, filling up that silence.

So for now, although a part of me can’t wait for him to start the next part of his life, a part of me says, “When you’re gone, I will not miss your mess, your eating habits, or your personal hygiene, but I will miss seeing you succeed, and being there when you fail, and I will worry about you every day, my beautiful son. And most of all, I love you very, very much.”

Suck it, Oprah.

Part of my reason for creating this dumb blog in the first place was specifically so I could dedicate as much space as I wanted to how much I detest Oprah. But until this point I’ve been sadly lacking in the Oprah-bashing, and that’s for two reasons: 1) I don’t actually watch her show. My knowledge of Oprah comes courtesy of Joel McHale and The Soup, from people on Facebook, and from the few snippets I see of the show at the gym. So, although I harbor a lot of resentment to the woman, I don’t have anything to discuss re: that resentment. 2) I am afraid of the Oprah Syndicate. I mean, we have free speech in this country, but I believe that Oprah had the actual Constitution of the United States changed to prohibit free speech about her. People say bad things about Oprah, and then, in small but noticeable ways, their lives turn to shit. Like, if you have a scholarship to a school, and you smear Oprah, she will buy the school and get rid of that scholarship, just to spite you. She will take away every major at your college except one: Lice. For the rest of your life, you will have to tell people you majored in Lice. If you are running in a 10K race, Oprah will buy out the field and stock it with her own stable of Olympic runners just so you will come in last place. Let’s say you really like green M&Ms. Oprah will buy every package of M&Ms in your state, and have all the green M&Ms replaced with brown ones. The light brown ones that look like diarrhea. That’s how diabolical she is.

So it is with marked reserve that I announce to the world just a few of my issues with Oprah. Read this carefully, because your computer will probably burst into flames in about five minutes (yes, that’s Oprah’s doing.)

Issue 1: Oprah Requires Copious Ass-Kissing. From what I can see, everyone who comes into Oprah’s life is required to bow at her feet. It doesn’t matter if you are a celebrity, the President of the United States, the Duchess of York, or a humble audience-member, when Oprah bellows her approval of something, you’d better damn approve, too. And boy, if she gives something to her audience, that audience had better throw an epileptic fit over how excited they are, or they will go home to find that Oprah has sent her personal army of highly-trained termites into each and every one of their homes to destroy it from its foundation. Seriously, the woman is like, “You get Stove-Top stuffing! And you! And you! And you! Stove Top stuffing for everyone!” And the audience is dancing around like a bunch of Stockholm Syndromed seals, furiously barking and clapping their stubby little seal arms together in hopes that Oprah will let them out of the audience alive.

Now, my friend Angela, who is a GIANT OPRAH SUPPORTER, states that this is part of Oprah’s humanity. That Oprah desperately needs people in her life. That she has deep psychological pain from her years of emotional and physical trauma, and that she is simply filling that need with the adoration of the people who come to her show. Well, that brings me to my second issue with Oprah….

Issue 2: Oprah is a Junkie. Angela claims that Oprah is filling her needs with people. I contend that Oprah is filling her stomach with deep fried butter (if you didn’t get that reference, Google “Oprah Winfrey Deep Fried Butter” – it will tell you everything you need to know.) Now here is my issue: Oprah has long admitted that she is addicted to food. I applaud her for that, and I am totally behind her. We all have our addictions. (My addiction: being AWESOME!!!) But Oprah, more than almost any person on the face of the earth, has the resources to do something about it. And I’m not saying that she has to be thin – I think we all agree that we didn’t much care for Thin Oprah. But I think it’s total bullshit that she announces that she is an addict, and then she continually puts herself in a position to give in to her addiction. Oprah, the food addict, should NOT be asking the public to approve of her visit to the Texas State Fair, in all of its junk food glory. That would be like a drug addict saying, “Hey, everyone, I am a total crack addict, but you should come along with me to this crack house, and watch me as I sample everything that’s going on here. It’s totally okay because I’ve already told you I’m an addict, and that I’m struggling with my addiction.” You are not struggling, Oprah! You are indulging your addiction, and you are asking all of your viewers to be in on the deception! I am not down with that!

My friend Angela defends Oprah, saying that Oprah is fighting the fight, and that she has made this, and many other emotional battles, part of the public discourse, shedding light on subjects that might otherwise stay hidden away. I disagree. I think that Oprah is substituting public discourse for actually digging in and fighting her own demons. And that’s a shame.

Okay, so I only give myself five minutes to write this blog, and I try to keep it brief, so I’ve got to stop here. (Also, I hear people assembling outside my door, and it sounds like they are loading a tranquilizer gun and talking via walkie-talkie to someone named Noprah.) But I hope this message makes it out. Wish me luck in spreading my message of Oprah intolerance. Long live Jerry Springer!

The Cats with Knives Television Network

Not to sound ungrateful, but I have noticed that a lot of shows are skewed to the unfortunate. Heavy, Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Biggest Loser, 16 and Pregnant, Intervention, I Used to Be Fat, Hoarders….seems to me like, unless you are a fat crack addict with twenty disabled children, you are not eligible for these change-your-life shows. And some part of me - granted, it is the insane part – feels just a little bit cheated.

Not that I want to be fat. Or have my house taken over by toxic mold. And God knows I don’t want to adopt disabled children or become addicted to meth. But I do envy the attention and the esteem-building that the people who go on these shows get. I want some damn esteem-building! So here are a few shows I would like to propose:

1) Biggest Loser: Medium – This is a show for people who are not overweight, but just want to be super hot. Same grueling workouts with Bob and Jillian, same weekly weigh ins (but on a regular scale instead of a giant-sized one), same sponsorship by Extra Sugarless gum and Britta water filters, but at the end of the season, the contestants will have lost, maybe twenty pounds and gone down, like, 2 sizes. Do I think America would be interested in this show? No. I mean, it would basically just be normal people working out. But I want a good workout, dammit, and I can’t afford a personal trainer.

2) Intervention: Peanut Butter – Most of us probably know at least one person whose life has been negatively impacted by the consumption of peanut butter. This is one of my personal struggles; I can take out a large jar of Jif Creamy in a week. I need some professional fucking help. Just like regular Intervention, the cameras would follow the peanut butter addicts. I alone would provide some GREAT footage of me standing in my pantry, with a spoon and a jar of peanut butter, just chowing away. Once, I told my son to hide the peanut butter, and when he did, I yelled at him for refusing to tell me where it was. Peanut butter addiction is no joke. This would be some gritty shit.

3) Modest Makeover, Home Edition – Listen, I do not want the world. But I would like some window treatments. So, in this show, somebody – it wouldn’t even have to be a designer, just someone with taste – would come over, look around regular houses, and replace the really shabby stuff. No sad story about the subject’s life, no theme rooms, no Disney vacation for them and their family, no bulldozer and certainly no bus….maybe they’d tell the subject to go hang out at Starbuck’s for an hour or so while they go to Target to get a new bedspread. The reveal would be like, “Look! We replaced your cereal bowl!” But the subjects would go even crazier than those Extreme Makeover people. They’d be fainting and stuff, punching the designers with joy, and yelling, “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! I needed a new cereal bowl!” And the designers would be like, “Wait, we also got you a new pillow for your couch!” and the subjects would start jumping up and down, like, “No! No fucking way! This pillow is A-MAZ-ING!”

4) Cluttered – In this show, essentially someone would come over and clean my house. My house is not filled with piles of stuff. Things are generally in the area where they belong, and there are no blowflies circling piles of garbage. But, I mean, it could be neater. So, people would come over and be like, “Whoa! This floor doesn’t look like it’s been mopped in, like, three weeks!” And then they would mop it. And then they’d be like, “Look what we just found! Laundry that needs to be folded!” And they would fold my laundry. And I would help a little, but mostly they would show me sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of wine and watching TiVo’d episodes of Hoarders.

5) I Didn’t Know I Was Tired – This is a spin-off of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. Except it would show people accidentally dozing off in the middle of other peoples’ sentences.

I’m just going to sit back and wait for the networks to call me about these shows. I think they sound like winners.