“For Whom the Bell Tolls”

The Shadow of Cain, Reflected in the Mirror

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It’s against human nature to point out our own flaws. No one really wants to take Jesus’ advice and remove the logs from our own eyes, so we can see clearly to remove the specks from our neighbors’ eyes.

Sarcasm, snark and mockery are the hallmarks of my generation, and over the years -sad to say- I’ve become a master of all three. I throw stones from inside my own glass house all the time. Sometimes the best way to try to cope with a broken and messed up world is to find the humor in it.

Hypocrisy runs deep through the fabric of humanity. It’s funny when stupidity happens to someone else but we are just as stupid- even though the stupidity may take a different form.

I have to admit that no matter what I do my image is shot through with the shadow of Cain. I plot revenge against my enemies (even if I don’t have the means or the heart to carry out said revenge,) and I have to admit I have a certain sense of schaudenfreude when those I perceive to be assholes and/or idiots get theirs. I shouldn’t enjoy it, but I do. Too much…which is not at all like Jesus, Who warned us that we risk the fires of hell whenever we call our neighbor a fool- even if he or she is one.

Confession doesn’t come naturally to the sons and daughters of Cain. Our instinct is to put on our fig leaves and attempt to cover up our wickedness with our own self-righteous justifications. As flawed as we are, we still want to play the merit system- and we want to believe that God grades on the curve.

No one is worthy before God on their own merit.

In spite of what I do, or more likely fail to do, I still come to the table like Isaiah in Isaiah 6, the man of unclean lips, a filthy, disgusting piece of nastiness in the sight of a perfect, holy God.  The shadow of Cain is shot through me completely and I can’t fix it or wash it out.

The only merit earned in God’s merit system is a merit earned outside of us, a merit bought and paid for by the blood of Jesus Christ.

Even so, we all try to justify ourselves like the Pharisee in the temple.

“At least I’m not doing that.“

“I go to church every Sunday.”

“I give to the church and contribute to Christian education.”

Very well. As you should.

But…

No matter what I do my good works are as Isaiah describes in Isaiah 64:5-6. The ESV uses the polite term “polluted garment,” but the original Hebrew of this text isn’t quite so nice. The actual reference would be more like a used tampon or a bloody maxi pad. Something unspeakably nasty, and those are the good things I try to do.

I am thankful that even someone like me- a sinner who has no right to stand before my holy God has been invited to His table. His fiery coal burns the evil from my lips. He removes my guilt. He gives me His clean garment as a gift.

I still live in the shadow of Cain until the day when my Lord sees fit to call me home. But He forgives my sins. He heals my diseases and is fitting me for life in His Kingdom.

Feminism Fail: We Were Sold a Bill of Rotten Goods

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Pennywise has become a uterus?!

I grew up in the 70s and came of age in the 80s.  I was a child of the media, apathy and societal laissez-faire- and of parents who were poor and had to work a lot more than they should have.

Even growing up in a backwater town that was 20 years behind the times didn’t help much. I still wanted to dress like the dancers on Soul Train and was convinced someday I would be a super combo of the women in the Virginia Slims and the Enjoli ads.

Oh yeah. Not.
Green is so not my color. I am just thankful I quit smoking before my lungs turned black.

The church wasn’t a whole lot of help. The RCC had jettisoned much of its traditional practices and teachings so we got mixed messages from them. I learned more about Jesus and the grace of God from the rare trips I got to Sunday School in Grandma’s Regular Baptist church than from the confused version of Catholicism taught at that time. In the RCC’s defense they are more true to the Scriptures than most Protestants today, but that’s not saying much.

The 80s were a free for all both in culture and institutionalized religion. And it’s all downhill from there.

For a woman of my generation I was conservative politically and socially, but liberalism and militant feminism had their bad influences on me.

I used overwork like some people use opiates. To stay numb. To have perceived value. I didn’t need a man. I certainly didn’t want to stay home and raise kids. I wanted to be important and in control. And I had no choice because neither my first nor second husbands were good providers.

I thought once my son was born the most important thing was for me to get back to work and earn money, not to pay personal one- on-one attention to his education and well-being. I could not have afforded being a stay at home mother financially anyway, as my husband at the time was more about blowing money drinking and gambling than providing.

I was sold a bill of rotten goods. And I was gullible enough to buy it.

I bought a bill of rotten goods that caused me to fail my son by denying him the nurture and education from a present and caring mother. It was a bill of rotten goods that led to two failed marriages to beta males who needed mommies and enablers rather than wives. It was a bill of rotten goods that reaped years of exhaustion, depression and despair.

I couldn’t be the Enjoli woman or the sexy Soul Train dancer. I became just a burned out, depleted, depressed middle aged crone.

The natural order is good. It is made by God for our benefit. Men and women were made to complement and complete each other, not to compete.

One man and one woman marriage was instituted by God not just for the procreation and nurture of children but for the good of society. Men are called to provide and women are called to nurture and teach our children.

For Christians our lives are not our own. We have been bought with the price of the sacrificed Lamb of God, Who has paid for our sins and Who sustains us into eternal life.

I’ve always said that my life serves more as a warning than an example to follow. My life can show one what NOT to do.

Women, find a real man. A man who belongs to Christ. A man who supports and loves you. Marry young and have as many children as the Lord will give you. Cherish your husband, love and respect him. Give him a home.

As far as the cologne commercial, the cigarettes, and the obsession with overwork and militant bodily autonomy, let those things go. We were created for better than this.

Singing Dirges in the Dark, a Sober Realization, and Trying Not to Let the Bastard Win

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I was a weird child. One of the first songs I ever memorized -and played over and over again- was Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Even a three year old who reads the dictionary is going to have a tough time with the historical references and metaphor in that song.

So, a dirge. Try explaining to a three year old what a dirge is when said three year old has never really seen death or mourning or loss. I may not have understood the meaning of a dirge then, but I get it all too well now.

This morning I had one of those lightning bolt sort of feelings that I am going to die abandoned and alone. My son, who opposed my marriage and hasn’t spoken to me in three years, could give two shits less whether I live or die. I don’t regret marrying Bruce, far from it, but my son simply can’t process the thought of his mother being in a non abusive relationship. He also didn’t appreciate Bruce reminding him of some of the liberties he has taken with his mother’s resources. I will leave that thought there.

The bottom line will ultimately be: Guess I gotta sing my own dirge.

There’s an odd comfort in that even though I can still go along with Dylan Thomas and his entreaty to go raging against the dying of the light.

I’m not dead yet, but in some ways I feel dead. Many doors are permanently closed and I need to be OK with that.

The world is different once the dirge is sung. 

God Bless This Dumpster Fire

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Story of my life.

I’ve always been that person who just plods through whatever  and then breaks down when the crisis is over. I’m the one who can’t cry at a funeral but completely loses my shit twenty years later because my mind went wandering that way for no apparent reason.

This morning I had to take Bruce back to Columbus for another scan, another stop on his fight against cancer that began suddenly last November. That is another saga that is difficult and painful enough for me to observe even though I am not the one with the disease.

Take the Cologuard commercial seriously, folks, because the alternative isn’t pretty or fun.

I despise rush hour traffic even more perhaps than when it was a daily thing for me. I don’t miss living in the city or navigating in it, but I can do it if I need to.

We left early, so I took the back roads. It was refreshing to enjoy the view on one of those rare clear sunny days out in the sticks and to avoid most of the freeway traffic.

It was nice to step away from the dumpster fire for a moment.

I take comfort in the fact that this world, this life is not the end. The visual of Job digging at his sores with potsherds or of the dogs licking Lazarus’ wounds doesn’t sound as horrible when I realize trials aren’t permanent. God has lessons for us in them even when we don’t get it and can’t see beyond the pain.

Itching definitely sucks.

Pain is real, but it is also temporary.

It is an unfortunate consequence of both my ethnic background and my own messed up wiring that no matter how messed up a situation is, the knee-jerk response is to just say, “I’m fine.”

Not by a long shot.

If this life were a charter cruise, I would have to decline to recommend it. But my enjoyment isn’t the point of the endeavor.

Support Bras and Sensible Shoes, an Air of Pervasive Misanthropy- with a Metallica Soundtrack

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As much as I try to fight it, I am becoming my mother, at least in appearance.  As much as I wish I could look like Demi Moore, on a good day I might pass for a 55 year old mutant troll.   I’ve had more than one person ask me if I was my mother’s sister.  Never mind that I’m 42, and Mom is 22 years older than me.  I know I’ve been rode hard and put away wet throughout this adventure of life, but I sort of wish I might have aged just a little bit better.  The years have not been kind.

Long ago I became resigned to the fact that it’s in my best interest to dress for comfort,  not for speed.  For those of us with ample chests, (38D) bra shopping consists of two goals- find a bra that will hold the puppies firmly and comfortably without fail, even when bending over, AND that doesn’t leave divots in one’s shoulders.  These bras are practical but not generally pretty.  Victoria’s Secret is that they don’t have bras that meet this criteria.   I spent way too many years in my vanity dealing with scratchy underwire bras that left divots in my shoulders and would allow the puppies to fly out every time I bent over.  These days I like the heavy duty beauty hold ’em up in a hurricane type bras- the kind my grandmother (also endowed with the 38Ds) preferred. She was a lingerie buyer for a department store and could at least could get good deals on the stuff.  I either have to wait for the clearance sales- or pay retail, which I am loathe to do for anything.  I hate to pay retail.

The shoe reality is harder for me to deal with.  I used to wear at least a three inch heel (if not a five inch stiletto) every freaking day, working and standing on concrete and it never bothered me.  Now it almost has to be a special occasion for me to wear a two inch wedge.  I’m still only 5’4″, provided I’ve not shrunk with age, so I still need the height boost.  It’s not as if I have a hard to fit foot- I wear a 7B and the only issue I ever encounter with shoes is that I have a high instep.  Boots and certain over-the-instep styles can be a bit of a challenge, but generally if the shoe is true to size I’m good to go.  I order shoes online quite often with no difficulty. I don’t have as big a problem with trying on shoes in public as I do with clothes (I never, ever, ever disrobe for the perverts charged with monitoring public fitting rooms) but I’d still rather buy my shoes online.  It saves me time and the aggravation of cavorting around amidst the unwashed hordes.

I just ordered some five inch platform sandals which I am going to wear come hell or high water (a good fashion choice in high water, heh-heh) because I paid good money for them, and because sometimes it’s fun to mess with Dad.  If I wear more than a two inch heel, I’m taller than him.

For daily wear, though, I find myself gravitating less toward five inch platforms and more toward Crocs sandals or Skechers Toners.  I don’t have to wear dress clothes to work. We don’t see customers face to face, so our dress code can be summed up as, “just as long as the nasty bits are covered.”  Since I don’t have to wear dress clothes,  I like the “toning shoes.”  I figure if I have to walk anyway, might as well get as much exercise as I can with each step.  This way I am more motivated to walk so I can get more stealth exercise. I am not much for doing a whole lot of walking in heels. 

I’m sure that a casual observer would think it strange that the matronly looking old cougar driving a car with hot pink Hello Kitty stickers all over it, who looks like someone’s grandma, is usually jamming to assorted hard rock and heavy metal.  I got a really bizarre look the other day from some teen punks when I had Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” cranked up full blast on the HK Yaris’ stereo when I pulled in to park in the Kroger’s parking lot.   Just because I’m old does not mean I am resigned to Lawrence Welk, Barbra Streisand (accckkkk!) and elevator music.  My only regret is that I wasn’t listening to something a bit more edgy, such as Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noise,” or Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train.”

I’m every bit the headbanger I was back in the day even though I (sadly) sold the Gibson Victory Artist (yes, they are legendary, and yes I actually had one) and the Marshall full stack years ago.  I enjoyed singing and playing bass, but the reality is that very few people ever get to a place where they can support themselves by playing music.  Sometimes practical concerns have to win out, such as being gainfully employed and supporting oneself, but it was fun while it lasted.  I was a good player and a good singer, but I have to admit I don’t have the image.  Nobody cares how well you play or sing if you don’t have the stage presence.  Audiences want you to give ’em something to look at, and I’ve never been much to look at.  Maybe that’s why most female musicians who have done well for themselves have done it on their looks and not necessarily on their talent.  There’s a lot of very nice looking but horribly mediocre female singers out there who are making the big bucks.  You can be a very good singer, but look like a mutant troll- and you end up selling automotive parts. 

1982 Gibson Victory Artist…drooolll… mine looked exactly like this, with the sunburst pattern and everything.   I bought mine ever so slightly used (almost pristine) for $800 back in 1985 which was an unheard of sum to pay for an instrument, especially when considering my first car- yes it was a POS but it ran- was only $400.  Today you would not be able to touch a functional Victory Artist- in which the active EQ and pickups work as they should- for under $1000.   Awesome instrument except for one minor detail- it was in no way light on the shoulders. Gibson stopped making them in 1986, probably because they were incredibly expensive for the day, ($2000 for a new Victory Artist with all the toys, in 1985) and Gibson wasn’t exactly making money in the dismal economic times of the early ’80’s selling high line instruments.  One could buy a Washburn bass that was decent and almost as effortless to play, for less than half the price- but Gibson’s craftsmanship is legendary.  If I were into vintage instruments, and/or if I seriously wanted to start playing bass again, I would have to scrounge me another one- but (sad as it sounds) playing bass isn’t terribly high on my list of things I really need to do right now.  Playing an instrument well takes a lot of time and practice, and the equipment needed to play is not inexpensive.  Finding others interested in forming a band and getting any kind of venues in which to play would also be a formidable task . More importantly, I seriously wonder if my wrists and fingers could tolerate it, especially considering all the typing I have to do in the course of a day.  When I sold the Artist in 1994 I was at a point where I could only play comfortably for 15-20 minutes at a time and really had to push it to make it through a two hour set.  What’s the point of playing music if it’s painful?  I have arthritis in virtually every part of my body that has cartilage in it, thanks to a childhood bout of rheumatic fever- the gift that keeps on destroying- and a young adulthood of taking everything just a little too far.  My hands and wrists are in bad enough shape already without bothering to put all that extra stress on them.

Oh, well.  I like being comfortably obscure from the safety of my ivory tower, watching the wheels go around when I can stay still long enough, and entertaining myself by watching the ongoing devolution of humanity.

“For Whom the Bell Tolls” indeed.

 It’s oddly comforting to know that all the rock/metal artists I admire are older than me.