Friendly religious editorializing

Easter and Passover brought with them a barrage of religiously-toned stories and commentary in the news. One of my very favorite least favorite stories involves People's coverage of Mel Gibson and some seriously evil eavesdroppers. Apparently Mel was lamenting to some of his church peeps about the fact that his wife just filed divorce papers. It's safe to assume he wasn't entirely thrilled about the situation and was likely talking to them in confidence. So what do the saintly, church-going eavesdroppers do? Duh...they sell the story to People. In all honesty, I think Mel is 100% off his rocker and often in need of intervention, but I feel sorry for a dude who gets spied on in church.

And those crazy bitches over at Momversation kept the ball rolling with a conversation about religion and how to make interfaith marriages work.

Ferris and I don't have an interfaith marriage in the literal sense, but we've certainly endured our fair share of interChristian controversy. Did you ever hear the one about the Mormon and the Catholic who got married? It's friggin' hiiiillllllllarrrrrrious. I've written about religion a lot, specifically Mormonism, but it's been a while since I've felt compelled to let it all hang out. I suppose the whole 'angry reformed Mormon moves the hell away and starts a family' thing has lost it's luster for me. Now I'm stuck with the reality of not knowing what the hell I am.

This year, we celebrated Passover with dear friends. I totally loved it, but I was less enamored by the religious stuff than the good company and interesting food. Ever try parsley dunked in salt water? It's awesome, those bitter herbs.

More importantly, I enjoyed the part in the Momversation when Rebecca Woolf talked about how she enjoys the social community of church while Alice Bradley talked about how church is only about communing with God, not the community. I guess Mel Gibson should have thought about that before he opened his trap.

The family-fueled Christmas fart

Something has come over me and it's starting to get seriously irritating. I'm feeling decent amounts of contentment and happiness which my psyche has absolutely no idea how to compute. Let me explain.

The last few weeks have been a beautiful blur. And when I say 'blur', I'm not referring to time that goes by too quickly. I'm talking about a blur of nondescript days filled with equal parts laziness, productivity, happiness, sadness, stress, ease, decadence, and total peace.

Christmas was sweet (sweet as in nice AND sweet as in radical). We woke up in our home, together, opening mountains of gifts...each one, big and small, representing more thoughtfulness and love than the last. I'm loath to admit I truly missed my 52 nut job relatives in Pocasmello. What is Christmas without hours in the airport, delays, family quarrels, sleep deprivation, regression, endless family events, copious amounts of bad food, and the subsequent gas? That's the real problem, right? Christmas without family-fueled suicidal farts just doesn't feel like Christmas at all.

And then Bimbo, my baby sister, got married. A week before Christmas I got a call while I was at work from My Mother the Prude with the news that Bimbo planned to semi-elope the following week...meaning she was planning a very small affair just after Christmas. I immediately called my baby sister so I could shower her with the happiness and affection I genuinely felt for her and the perfect mate she chose. It was the best decision of her whole life. Then, I quietly put the phone down on my desk and started to cry. Happiness, loneliness, joy, pain, sadness, sorrow, grief, pride, respect, frustration, anger, love. These are the things relationships with my family consist of. My heart ached because I couldn't be there. My heart ached because even if I were there, I wouldn't be allowed in the temple where she got married because I'm not of that Mormon caliber. My heart ached because I was so very, very happy for her.

I ached.

Through the ache, I went home and hugged Eva, canoodled Ferris, and settled into my lovely nest in Portland as we prepared for the beautiful blur of Christmas and the approaching new year.

So, why do I feel so much contentment and happiness amid such complex events? Because everything is just as it should be. I am meant to be here, in Portland in this house with these people doing exactly what I'm doing...just as my family is meant to be there, in Pocasmello in their homes with their people doing exactly what they're doing.

It's bitterly cold tonight, but that didn't stop Eva and I from bundling up and braving the elements for a quiet walk along the water near our house. Each time the water lapped against the salty frozen ocean shore it became increasingly clear that my life has found a longed-for balance. We rounded a bend on the walk that placed us in front of a group of ducks (crazy badass winter ducks) waddling around in a group searching for the warmest position. Eva pointed and babbled about the 'quacks' and demanded to stay longer than I would have liked. Breathing around the snot icicles formed on the tip of my nose, I looked up and saw three small ducks huddled together, heads down, drifting in a circle near the shore. Perhaps a family. Perhaps those ducks would stay extra warm because they decided to brave it together.

And thus brings the theme that will inspire my New Years Intentions for 2009. I've spent my entire life trying to fortify my surroundings, much like the family of ducks, in order to survive and weather the storm. Through it all, I've learned that the storms will always exist, but I have surrounded myself with people who love and protect me (here and there). With this in mind, I've decided to approach this year with reckless abandon.

More to come.

On facing the book

Facebook, you are a force to be reckoned with. I tried my damnedest to resist you. I resisted because my ciber plate was all full up with blogging. But, truth be told, I resisted party because I'm a pompous windbag who fancies herself above the fray of common ciber folk. Facebook and Myspace, in my arrogant opinion, were for people who didn't have the creative chops to sustain a REAL blog. Open mouth, insert foot, swallow pride, eat shit and die.

I joined Facebook one month ago at the nagging hand of my dear friend Ariane, the super PR genius who has her finger on the pulse of these things. She's got something like 1 billion friends and counting. So I joined, but I joined with the condition that I would only use Facebook as a connection to peeps who were otherwise unconnectable, and by connecting to those folks on Facebook they could find their way to my blog. My blog, where all the cool kids hang out. Right.

And then something happened.

Suddenly, I found myself reintroduced to people I haven't heard from in years. I'm talking 12+ years, and I'm loving it. I left Pocasmello (as young adults leaving home for the first time often do) with my shoes on fire. I was angry and confused...confused about who I was and who I wanted to be. Yes, a good part of the confusion had to do with Mormonism (Am I Mormon? Am I not? Stay tuned.), but I also needed to leave Pocasmello in order to find myself. It sounds a bit self-indulgent and esoteric, but I had no choice if I wanted to keep my sanity.

Being happy to see old friends on Facebook proves that I've traveled a good distance, at least in terms of harnessing my adolescent psychosis. Perhaps time and geographical distance have given way to healing and a glimmer of maturity. Or perhaps my shoe fire has downgraded to a mere smolder in my old age. Either way, sweet Ariane, it's safe to finally say...

You told me so.

The sky is falling

Before I start making fun of yet another person, I'll have you know that this time I first asked permission. I called my little brother this morning, and our conversation went something like this:
"Is it cool if I blog about you?"
"What are you going to say?"
"I'm going to make fun of you."
"Sweet. Make me famous."

About a week ago, my brother called to tell me about his latest existential crisis. He believes, as many do, that the world as we know it will soon come to its dramatic conclusion...otherwise known as Armageddon. Normally, I would rather dive in front of oncoming traffic than continue that conversation, but this one was different. He wanted to talk about politics, or more to the point, he wanted to talk about corruption. My brother's a smart cat and has wisely picked up on the fact that our political process is frustrating and seemingly impossible. He believes that McCain is a crook, that Obama is going to take all his money, and that Hilary is the devil incarnate. No doubt, he's one among many.

So what does an informed, frustrated, dapper young Mormon lad do? He buys a year's supply of food storage complete with one million pounds of whole grain and a mechanized wheat grinder. Then he publicly states his intention to vote for a democrat in November. What? Did you hear that? It's the sound of Pocasmello freezing over.

The whole scenario cracks me up. It cracks him up too which is why we can have a civil conversation about it. I mean, come on. One year's worth of wheat? What the hell is he going to do with a year's worth of ground wheat if he can't even boil water? I suppose I should't make too much fun because a wild heathen like myself is going to be seriously screwed. I guess if the shit actually does hit the fan, we can always pack up the wagon and head west for a gourmet meal of bread. Wait! It will probably be more like toast...you know...because of all the consuming hell fire and destruction.

The final Bimbo update

My sister's real name is Kimberly (you can now find her over here), and in a manic nick-naming fit she became Kimbo the Bimbo. The vast cup of irony spillth over since she is the single most chaste person I know (and that's no compliment).

I woke up yesterday morning in tears...literally...because I had to say goodbye and scoot her onto a plane back to Pocasmello. It was terrible to see her go but pure AGONY knowing she was leaving this perfect place and heading back to the abyss of Pocasmello. A week earlier I was picking her up at the airport, seeing her for the first time in 18 months, introducing her to my baby, and not knowing what to expect. It felt like lots of time had gone by. Good time, time where both of us had become more of ourselves, more grounded, somehow more firm in who we are, and in doing so we were able to give of ourselves more freely.

She made us go to church (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). We went. Eva sat on the floor taking things in and out of my purse 57 times while I tried not to burst into flames every time someone used a Mormon accent. We ate nonstop, baked cookies, and watched old movies and really bad TV. Eva spent hours in Bimbo's lap pulling her hair and yanking on her earlobes. And we shopped, man-oh-man, did we ever shop (much more about that very soon). I suppose the most surprising part was the ease in our conversations. We talked endlessly about the 18 months of pop culture of which she was blissfully unaware and all the fun and crazy stuff that happened when we were little...stuff that only she and I know about and only she and I would find even remotely humorous. Like when she was 5 years old and I told her that if she picked her nose and ate it, the boogers would burn holes in her belly. I scared her to death. Now, that's actually pretty funny.