Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Archive for the ‘Serious Stuff: Blech. Phooey.’ Category

Mary Invents Bullet points

This isn’t exactly a “Merry Christmas” post. It’s really just Christmas story musing. Since virtually no one will be sitting around reading blog posts on Christmas, maybe it’s an okay follow-up to the holiday cheer.

Hardly a Christmas has gone by that I haven’t contemplated the plight of Mary, Jesus’ mom.

I don’t know how many Christmases I’ve spent weeping for that poor girl, while at the same time, relishing the story behind the story: That she was CHOSEN by god for a blessed miracle.

It was intriguing to think how stealthy the whole thing came down. Mary and Joseph, not yet married, not yet doin’ the nasty and yet, BLAM! There she is, preggers, having to hide from an entire community that would just-as-soon stone her as poot in her direction if word got out. Then there’s Joseph. Good guy, by all accounts. Goes so far as to consider ‘releasing’ Mary from their engagement without the finger-pointing and public humiliation that society would have obliged. Until …

An angel arrives on the scene to say, “Whoa! Dude! Hold up! God, like, TOTALLY has this thing under control. He’s been cheating on you with Mary but it’s cool! The groom in the womb will save you from your doom!” (That sounds just a little less stupid when you remember that Jesus is called the ‘bride groom’ and the church is called the ‘bride of Christ’. )

Naw. Nevermind. It’s still stupid. Anwyay

Joseph, who must have been pretty much freaked out of his mind at that point, rolls with the whole thing because, truthfully, what’s he GONNA do? Say to the creator of the universe who could crush him like a cockroach, “No thanks  … I’ll just peace-out and leave you two love birds alone…” ???? Me thinks not.

In any case, the person REALLY left in a predicament was Mary. She was what? 14 years old? And there she is, left with all that responsibility. She had a baby to birth, a funeral to plan and a resurrection to organize! All without benefit of prenatal vitamins or pain meds. And who was going to help her get all that stuff done? Nobody was going to believe her cockamame story in the first place:  “No! I did NOT have sex with that man!”

No cigar!!!! No one would believe her. It’s a total pickle and hardly fair.

Now, I know that for all the die-hards out there who simply cannot tolerate anyone messing with their Christmas story, (let alone their bible interpretations), this post is a total knicker-twister. Let me just say, I was once a die-hard myself with a Christian resume’ as long as your Christmas list so I know how this can wrankle with the winky. But I stand behind the notion that surely the god of the universe could have come up with a plan that didn’t hang a powerless little girl out to dry.

I dunno … it’s just my thought.


An Old Backpack Won’t Change The World

But it MIGHT change a cold night.

On nights like tonight, when the weather is ugly to everyone (even babies and puppies), I think about homeless people. Can’t help it. Even in my deliberate attempt to self-medicate through a selfish act of indulgence (a hot bath) and self-serving wastefulness (extra bath salts), I fail to numb the sadness I feel when I picture some runaway sitting alone under a bridge in the cold.

While I’m busy attending to my routine of personal hygiene, taking my hot baths and toothbrush for granted and wondering if my daily rinse with hydrogen peroxide and water is going to blow my head up, there’s someone at that moment who’d give anything for a toothbrush. They might even risk having their head blown up if it meant a fresh, minty mouth. I probably would.

All this contemplation has reminded me of something that happened one winter almost a decade ago.

Every week, my 12-year-old daughter and I made a trip into Atlanta for an appointment with her doctor. On one trip, we saw a homeless guy standing on the off-ramp of I-85 with a sign that said NEED FOOD. My daughter wondered out loud,”How does he stay warm? Or brush his teeth? Or keep from stinking?”

“He doesn’t,” was all I could say. How do you explain to your kid that there are over 20,000 people in your city alone that have no place to call home? That they wash in gas station bathrooms, wear filthy clothes and eat from trashcans? What’s the word homeless mean to a kid like mine? What’s it mean to ME?

The next week, we saw another guy at that same exit with a similar sign. It was even colder and the sky threatened to rain.  From that moment, it was as if all those invisible homeless folks suddenly became visible, popping out of every corner as we made our way past the usual landmarks. Kinda like when you buy a new car and then you start noticing that kind of car everywhere. Only awful and overwhelming and without the new car smell.

Once you see them – you see them. And they can’t be erased. Especially the shadows you take to bed with you at night. Theirs are the shadows that don’t get lost in the dark. Not even when you pull your heavy comforter over your head. They aren’t to be forgotten, either.

My daughter certainly didn’t forget. Two days later she bopped into my bedroom with three old backpacks over her shoulder and announced, “Operation Backpack.”


“Operation Backpack!” she repeated.

Then she told me her plan to collect old backpacks and fill each one with a bar of soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bottle of water, socks, gloves … stuff like that. “Then,” she said, “we’ll keep the backpacks in the car for our weekly trips into town. Next time we see someone at the exit or when we stop at a stop sign, we’ll hand them a backpack out the window!”

I was speechless. Honored. Awake. Aware.

We spent the remainder of that winter implementing Operation Backpack and you know what? It didn’t make a damned difference  to the thousands of homeless people in Atlanta or to ANY people in Atlanta for that matter …

Except to seven.

Two of those seven were me and my daughter.

A Sunday Night Rant About Leggings

I did NOT brave the perils of Black Friday, but I did venture out into Crazy Shopping Land ever-so-gingerly on Saturday. It was disturbing.

In spite of the title, I do love Leggings. They rock. You put on a long shirt or sweater, slip on a pair of Leggings and some cool, hot, sexy boots or shoes and by golly, 48 looks GREAT and the world rotates more smoothly just so you can walk it without falling on your pushing-50 fat ass.

But when that sweater or shirt does NOT cover the bum that’s stuffed in tight Leggings, you catapult yourself and your Leggings into a world where Leggings become ASSINGS.

Leggings are called Leggings for a reason. They are intended to show ONLY your legs as opposed to the butt cheeks. I’d bet my 3rd child and every ounce of that left-over turkey rotting in my fridge that the designer of Leggings said to herself upon the day of the Leggings conception, “Hey. I shall create this tight, clingy, flesh-hugging leg wear for people who want to COVER the derriere with camouflaging outer wear. Rather than accentuate the butt-crack, flabby fanny flesh or sagging, flailing ass blobs – my creation will HIDE those great Continental Divides.” That’s what she said. She did. I just know it.


While out shopping Saturday, I saw no less that 6 women wearing Assings where Leggings should have been! And I was only out there in the wild jungle of shopping hell for 1 hour and 46 minutes! And NO … I was NOT at Walmart where the Seniors at the entrance pass out Assings and request patrons to wear them while shopping.

I was not happy. Not happy at all.

Now look at what Assings has made me do …  I’m forced to drink heavily. See? I told you this was “Serious Stuff”.

photo by fliker’s kiwinky