What Would Jesus Do?

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AtlahThis is the racist, homophobic “Hate Church” of Harlem. This sign often references “sodomizers”, “white faggots stealing your black men”, “white gentrifiers”, etc. Still, this may very well be the most horrifying thing I have seen here so far.

They may be right though. Maybe Jesus has decided that this country is overdue for a big crash and burn. Trump is the best possible symbol for a nation that was built on, fosters and rewards greed. Trump as president would surely speed up our decline and fall.  I’ll have to check out that scripture passage. (BTW – West Harlem – where this church is located – has a very large Muslim population. Wonder what they think of this church’s endorsement.)

 

New Year’s Resolutions

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So, I extended Christmas for a few extra weeks on my blog due to technical difficulties and I’m now just catching up to New Year’s.

I don’t like making New Year’s resolutions because it’s just a recipe for self-defeating depression. Instead, I’ve made sort of a short term bucket list of things I’d like to do this coming year. I’ll keep you posted once I start checking items off.

  1. Walk into a really expensive restaurant – dressed nicely – and ask the maitre d. “Where’s the crapper at?”
  1. Ask to speak to a loan officer at the bank and tell him or her that I need $5,000. When he or she starts asking about credit ratings and collatoral, I’ll say, “I’m not looking for a loan, I’m asking for a handout.”
  1. Attend service at one of those churches where you’re supposed to stand up and confess your sins. At that point, jump up and say, “I confess, I got a bunch of people to believe that there was a God, took their money and wasted their time. Forgive me for I have sinned.” Then sit down.
  2. Get up on a busy subway car and say, “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. Does anybody have something to sell, a performance they would like to share, a few jokes or just a really good sob story? I’ve got some money burning a hole in my pocket and I’m looking for someone to give it to.”

Christmas Continued

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OK. Just one more Christmas post after this one and I promise I will not be trying to prolong the holidays any longer. Just getting caught up on time lost while my computer was down. And, apparently, I had a lot to say about Christmas. So, in the spirit of things, here’s the first of my X-mas cartoons.

FBI

 

 

Stories from Real Life I – Finding Jesus or The Christmas Miracle

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I got behind on my blog postings while my computer was being repaired so I have some catching up to do. Unfortunately for you all, the backlogged posts are all Christmas related. So deal with it. This post is the first in a series of true stories. Hope you enjoy it.

I was at a party recently when the topic “worst present ever” came up. I really couldn’t think of anything notably bad that I had ever received. However, later on that day the handyman for my building stopped by with a gift for me. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything. I had given him a little bit of money as a Christmas gift but it really was just a little, although I’m sure no one else in the building even thought of giving him anything. And, he and I have a very friendly relationship. Anyway I was touched that he thought of me but I was quite surprised, especially since what he handed me was a very large box. I thanked him, gave him a kiss on the cheek and brought the gift inside.

Very curious, I opened the box. Inside, individually wrapped in tissue paper, was a set of nativity figurines. Now, first of all, I’m not at all religious, as regular visitors to my blog can guess – judging by the number of Jesus jokes (OK, the guy’s an easy target.)

Secondly, these aren’t the kind of figurines you can set up on your mantle. These are BIG! Joseph is about a foot and a half tall. I live in a 200 square foot apartment. If I did choose to set up this nativity scene, it would be like sharing my studio apartment with seven roommates – and a baby. That is – if there was a baby. Actually, the Christ child (creche and all) is missing (as is one of the wise men) which, when I set them up temporarily just to get a visual, left the others all gazing down at – NOTHING.

Now, even if I did suddenly find Jesus (I mean that figuratively, not literally) AND if I was inclined to celebrate his birth by giving up about a quarter of my living space to this scene of the Christmas miracle, I have to add one more thing – this present was given to me on January 3rd. So, if I did have a nice little house somewhere with a yard to properly display my gift, I’d still have to store it for a year. But I guess I would also have a garage.

Anyway, I don’t think I can wait until that day arrives so, if anyone would like a not-quite-complete set of nativity figurines, leave a comment and we’ll see what we can work out.

(actual figurine)

wiseman

I just walked 300 miles – for what? Is this someone’s idea of a joke?

Speaking of missing Jesuses (believe it or not I do have another, totally unrelated story on this topic)

I was online last month looking to buy some little plastic baby Jesuses. (that’s another story) Anyway, I came across a posting from someone else who was looking for a mini Jesus. Her story was a very sad one so I will copy it here in full. “My best friend has a nativity scene that she really loves. Unfortunately, the baby Jesus fell off the shelf into the hamster’s cage and he gnawed off the head and hands. Does anyone know where I can find a little baby Jesus (about two inches long) to replace it? My friend is hearbroken.”

I almost posted my suggestion, which was to kill the hamster and put him in Jesus’s little nest but I thought that would just be cruel, and it is the Good Will Towards Men season, after all.

Hamster post communion (that’s a Catholic joke. Ask a Catholic to explain it)

Syrian Hamster

Happy Holidays everyone.

I (heart) MV

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For the new year, I’ve been busy thinking up slogans for my sometimes home of Martha’s Vineyard. Vote for your favorite and I’ll be sending the top three proposals to the chamber of commerce.

Martha’s Vineyard – if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

MV – Is inbreeding such a high price to pay for the year-round enjoyment of spectacular natural beauty?

Three months of smiling at tourists. Nine months of bitching about them.

The Vineyard – It’s worth mortgaging your home for memories that will last a few months.

Martha’s Vineyard – A little island off the coast of reality

Who’s Martha? We don’t know. Where are the vineyards? We don’t have any. Any more stupid questions?

Martha’s Vineyard – The status symbol for those who can’t afford Nantucket

Tourists beware – We’re not interested in adding your healthy new DNA to our gene pool!

If you have to ask, it’s probably a clam

The Vineyard – Where half the people are yoga instructors and the rest are either massage therapists or alternative medicine practiioners of some kind.

MV – The steamship is our ATM

Warning – Someone very likely spit on your overpriced cone of ice cream – Ok, gelato. Whatever.

The Vineyard – For people who are willing to pay for crap that washes up on the beach every day. (We’ve got polished beach rocks, clam shell jewelry and little bits of broken glass in every price range.)

Tourist advisory – Locals may tell you that they’re an artist of some sort but they’re really just looking for patrons for their particular brand of crazy!

Martha’s Vineyard – Pastel, sugar-coated hostility

The Vineyard – No you can’t have your money back.

 

 

Motherhood – A work of Fiction

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I’ve discovered that the most popular blogs are Mommy Blogs. I guess new mothers have plenty of time on their hands. So, I thought I’d try my hand at a mom story. Only problem, I have no kids so I had to use my imagination a bit. (let me know if you can think of any parenting publication that might be interested)

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

 

When I woke up post-delivery in the maternity ward, and a nurse came in to present me with my baby, my first thought was, “Really? Is that it? All of that for this?” I asked the nurse if she was sure it was the right baby. She laughed a little – nervously, then assured me that this was, in fact, my baby and left me alone, a somewhat concerned look on her face.

I held the baby and stared at it for a few minutes. Nothing. No love. No maternal feelings.  Just indifference. I wanted it out of my way so that I could order lunch. Finally I put the baby down, got out of bed and snuck out of my room. I turned at the door for one last look.” This can’t be mine,” I thought. I crept down the hall to that baby viewing room to see what else was on offer.

I figured that upon seeing my real baby, all of the hormonal juices would start flowing and I’d know right away there had been some horrible mistake. Didn’t happen. There were five or six babies lying in bassinets. Some looked a little better than mine. Some worse. But none evoked any kind of response. I scurried back to my room before anyone could tell that I’d left my baby all alone. They tend to frown upon that sort of thing – leaving babies unattended – as I would eventually learn.

The baby was right where I left it. Just making some little noises which I did not find adorable. “Well,”  I thought. “I’m stuck with it.” The nurse came back in shortly to ask if I was planning on breast feeding. I shot her a dirty look like she’d just asked me if I’d like another epidural. “Why don’t I take the baby so you can get some rest?” she suggested. I couldn’t hand it over fast enough.

Maybe it’s just a matter of time, I thought.

However, days went by with no change in my attitude. No emotions – besides feeling more than a little let down. This was so anti-climactic. All that build up for what? Talk about overrated.

I shared some of my thoughts with a few choice friends. I approached the subject cautiously, not divulging everything. Just expressing it as a sort of mild disillusionment. The response was always the same. “You’re just suffering from post-postpartum depression. It will pass.” The problem was, I didn’t feel depressed. Just annoyed. And it didn’t pass.

It didn’t help that my husband J.J. showed no more enthusiasm than I did. He basically just ignored the baby. Sometimes he would grudgingly hold it for a minute while I was trying to do something, but generally his attitude was like that of a parent who has given their child a pet for Christmas. “You wanted it. Now you take care of it.” I don’t remember either J.J. or I wanting a child. But we must have. Right?

Sometimes I could talk J.J. into watching the kid so I could run out to the store without having some sort of awkward encumbrance strapped to my body in some very unflattering manner. Inevitably I’d leave the store having remembered everything except baby food or diapers or any of the other baby necessities on my list. I’d get half way home, then turn around and go back and, more times than not, I’d get distracted by something like the surprisingly large selection of gum and I’d forget one of the items again. Possibly it was intentional. Staring at rows of chewing gum was more enjoyable than dealing with a helpless, mute human – 24/7.

It was worse when I took the baby with me somewhere in the car. You would think that after all the strapping in and fussing over belts, buckles, etc., I wouldn’t forget the baby was there. But I can’t tell you how many times I arrived home and absentmindedly left it in the carseat. It usually only took a few minutes before I suddenly realized why I was feeling so relaxed and contented. “Shit,” I left the baby in the car again.” My first impulse was always to leave it there for awhile but I’d mange to resist that thought. Got to be a responsible adult after all.

One time I did leave the baby in the car for almost an hour – by accident of course. A neighbor knocked on the door to let me know that I’d left an infant strapped into the back seat. I tried to look horrified. “Oh, my God!” I screamed as I ran out the door. What I really wanted to say was, “If you’re so fucking concerned, why don’t you take it?”

Maybe someone will take it. What does one have to do to have her child removed by the authorities? I started drinking heavily.

I thought I might like the extra attention. I had sort of enjoyed being the pregnant woman who people indulged and strangers started conversations with. But I eventually got tired of having to stop the stroller while people oohed and aahed and asked the same questions – over and over again. “What’s its name? How old is it?” I always had to stop and think of the answer to that last one. Let’s see how long ago was it that my life came to an abrupt end?

Sometimes I also forgot its name. Occasionally I just made one up on the spot to avoid the embarrassment.

I started buying mother’s magazines to see if I would get inspired. Maybe if I thought of this as a hobby I’d take more of an interest. “It just takes a while to get into the rhythm of it all,” my friend Veronica said to me one day. She’d said the same thing about yoga. I persisted in that case. She was wrong. And I knew better than to believe her this time.

I tried to think of something good that came out of this whole experience. The paid time off from work was nice. Or would have been, if I could have used it to go on a vacation. I thought about asking my mother-in-law to take the baby for the remainder of my maternity leave so that J.J. and I (or better yet – just I) could go to Mexico. Veronica said I absolutely could NOT do that. “The public never forgave Princess Di for leaving her newborn to go skiing. Plus look at what turds her kids turned out to be.”

The latter argument held no sway. I didn’t care if my kid grew up to be a turd. I didn’t care if it grew up to be anything. Truth be told. I didn’t care if it grew up at all.

Oh, well. I’d look terrible in a bathing suit right now anyway. I thought about ordering one of those personalized tee shirts “I went through 9 months of pregnancy and 10 hours of labor and all I got was this flabby body.”

I started hanging out with other mothers. Those are the only friends you can have when you’ve got a newborn baby. These women were SO BORING. All they ever talked about was all of the amazing things their kids were doing. Amazing? I don’t think so. Were they writing piano sonatas? No. Turning over on their sides unassisted, or forcing their cunning little lips into a vague semblance of a smile was more like it. God help me!

These other mothers would say thing like, “I can’t wait until she can walk.” or “Won’t it be fun when he’s talking.”

For myself – I can’t wait until it’s old enough to send off to boarding school.

And – it will be pretty great when it can support me in my old age. Sort of like a very long term IRA. Except there are no guarantees. Better make it a really good boarding school.