My Best Friend-I Just Met-For Five Minutes-And It Was Dark

Disclaimer-This is no one any of you know.

My Best Friend-I Just Met-For Five Minutes-And It Was Dark

Say what you will about social media, and an awful lot has been said, but there are advantages despite the dire warning we are becoming increasingly isolated by our false sense of belonging. I for one am “clinically addicted” to it. I say “clinically addicted” because my career in the political arena is nothing but social media. Which is how I met my new best friend.

It was an introduction, of sorts, by several mutual friends, who after we agreed to “like” each other purportedly called in Civil Defense and predicted the end of civilization as we know it. That part I liked. I liked the idea of having a friend who apparently could possibly be worse than I am at flinging hissy fits. (She is almost.) But I liked better the daily interaction that occurs with her friends and my friends and of course us. It’s like having a perpetual sparring/comedy partner-you know like Laverne and Shirley-at your fingertips.

I am afraid to take it much beyond the cyber basement apartment in Milwaukee (see Laverne and Shirley reference). There is something to be said for living purely in the written word. Heck, how many friendships do you have where dialogue can be reviewed and edited before it’s spoken? How witty one can be when one can arrange one’s thoughts ahead of time, carefully crafting the message-the story-the witty reply.

Kenneth Grahame, in his masterpiece “The Wind in the Willows” put it nicely, “Toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticize in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. Indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off?”

Exactly.

We met once, I mean in person, months after jointly plotting to overthrow the government, expel ill-mannered Yankees from the city, and crowning Julia Reed the Queen of Our Order. It was kinda weird. I didn’t know what to say and she seemed hesitant and it all deteriorated into a, er, let’s get together some time-which we never did. We are both people of the written word-although I’m quite certain we can hold our own in any verbal debate. We just choose to choose our words carefully. Now, that in no way means choosing decorum or good sense. It just means well edited for the best possible style.

One day we might really throw a Julia Reed party, but even that has its hazards. I mean we could get into an argument about table decorations and flowers and how martini glasses should be utilized. She might think I drink too much and I might think she obsesses about political hacks and it could just ruin a perfectly good friendship.

I think we’ll just stick to the Sally Field method of relationships, “You like me! You really like me”. At least you mashed that button.

I Miss Erma

I miss Erma Bombeck.  I have made her my patron saint - even if the church won’t.  Not to diss Mother Theresa, Our Lady of Lourdes or Joan of Arc.  I just miss Erma.  She articulated my story when I couldn’t.  She made me laugh despite the generation gap. She used her teeth to untangle the shoelaces of a toddler who had “peed” on them all day.  She ate stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she found in couch cushions because it was easier than a trip to the trash can.  She talked dirty to her house plants and they died.  She poured chocolate sauce on cottage cheese and felt rebellious.  She threw her hotel room key to Tom Jones, only later to discover it was the key to the deep freeze.  She said it was okay to just tolerate your kids, to only sometimes love your husband and to keep fighting for equal pay. Erma said all these things we wish we had said, even when we didn’t even know we should be thinking them.

Where are the Erma icons?  Where are the Erma-in-your-pocket patron saint medallions?  Why can’t I stick a plastic Erma on the dash board of my car?  Where is Erma?  Erma’s memory is dying and my generation needs to get its butt in gear and bring her back. 

Erma was more than a one woman spokesperson for mothers. She was a leader, a sister, a mother for all of us.  She put leftovers in little plastic containers, knowing no one would ever eat them, just to be frugal.  She dreamed of her own convertible and wearing shiny lip gloss like Marlo Thomas.  Instead she got a station wagon and school pick up duty with detours to the vet.  She wanted to play, but the dog had to be neutered, the cleaners needed to give back pressed clothes, the lawn mower repair shop missed her and the grocery store wasn’t going to visit itself.  She wrote columns and books and earned a paycheck, all the while taking numerous calls from children fighting over whose turn it was to do the dishes. She, more than anyone other woman in recent history, was the true definition of a woman. 

You don’t even have to be a mother to appreciate Erma.  You had a mother.  When you get all grown up you realize what your mom did for you.  At least most of us do, even if it may not have appeared to be perfect at the time.  Now that I’m all grown up, I realize what Erma did for me.  She made it okay to be a mom, even a working mom.  She made it okay to feel lonely and isolated.  She made it okay to want to run away from home at forty.  She made it okay to walk into your kids room at night and remember why you love them.  She made it okay if some days you didn’t like them.  She is gone and I am lost.  Who will lead us out of the wilderness of wash day? 

The religious right tells us we can’t work and be good mothers.  Erma was a staunch Catholic and worked.  The left tells us we can’t be mothers and fulfilled as women.  Erma fought for the Equal Rights Amendment.  Women today still only make seventy cents on the dollar compared to our male colleagues. 

Erma transcended left and right.  Erma made her own way.  Erma paved the way for me and my fellow moms to work, to mother, to be human.  Her spirit is with us when we get texts in the middle of board meetings from frantic children who forgot chemistry homework and need it brought immediately to school.  Erma didn’t even have a cell phone. She is with us even now as we work to cure cracked heels and strengthen weak nails that come from lack of sleep and stress.  She undergirds us as we work for less, give more and still volunteer. 

I pray to Erma at night.  Jesus just wouldn’t understand. 

“Erma,” I say, “Grant me the energy to love, to work, to pretend to care, to care and to survive.” 

Erma always answers me,

 “Stretch marks and cracked heels are a Stigmata, be proud.  Dark circles under your eyes from children who don’t sleep are the marks of beauty.  Cottage cheese is better with fudge sauce.  And, my child, car pool duty is a get out of hell free card.  Good work my good and faithful woman!  Up here we all look good in two piece bathing suits and fluorescent lights are banned.  Your rewards are laid up in heaven and they are calorie free.” 

As I lay down to sleep - until a child finds me - all I can think is… I hope so Erma, I sure hope so. And, I miss you Erma. We all do.

Mad at Jesus

Does it make you uncomfortable that a large portion of the Christian community in America is preoccupied with the Rapture?  Rapture is the term Evangelicals use for the apocalyptic Second Coming of Christ where all Christians will be swept into heaven while unbelievers are left on earth to suffer the consequences of not being Christian. I think Michele Bachman predicts the “End Times” every time she gets in front of a microphone. If you aren’t familiar with this doctrine you really should check into it.  It’s real horror movie stuff-plagues, murders, genocide-not for the faint of heart.

I don’t understand it and was raised in it.  I’ve very nearly resorted to professional help to rid myself of the nightmares.  These churches spare no one, even children.  I was exposed to it through lengthy, vitriolic sermons and graphic movies shown at kiddy functions.  If my mother was five minutes late picking me up from school I was certain she had been “raptured” and I had been “left behind” to face the wrath of Jesus who knew full well  I really didn’t like him.

Even as an adult I still have horrible flashbacks of those movies. They go something like this, a little girl is walking with her mommy holding her hand, when suddenly her mother’s purse hits the  sidewalk, cars begin crashing around the startled tike as people rush past her screaming in terror.  It amazes me to think the producers of that flick honestly thought Jesus would leave a child behind to face carnage.  What could this child possibly have done?  I remember thinking whatever it was I had probably done it or thought it.

Where I grew up, thinking it was as bad as doing it.  Sin was sin, there was no gray area.  In fact there was very little any safe area, almost everything was a sin.  Missing Sunday school was a sin.  Lying was a sin.  Sex, drinking, movies, dancing all were sins.  Life revolved around one big confession to Jesus, who in my mind was an overbearing deity with nothing better to do but wait on me to screw up so he could strike me with cancer. 

Cancer was his punishment of choice.  Anyone who got cancer was obviously, “not right with the Lord”.  Even little old ladies incapable of harming a fly, much less drinking, dancing or having s-e-x were not immune.  Once stricken with cancer, word would spread throughout the congregation that in fact, God’s time was not our time and just because they didn’t look guilty for a recent infraction didn’t mean that they weren’t receiving latent punishment.

Latent punishment, that’s what the Rapture is all about.  All those unbelievers who refused to listen to the preachers, the missionaries, the TV evangelists all are doomed, if still living, to face the “Tribulation”.  The Tribulation is the time between all the right people being Raptured and all the wrong people finally being cast into the Lake of Fire.  The Lake of Fire would have to seem like a welcome respite considering the downward spiral of conditions on earth throughout the seven years.

Seven years, that was the duration of the Tribulation.  The first three and a half years, I was taught, would not seem so bad.  The Democrats would have control of the government again, everyone would marvel at the new and easy way to purchase products without having to carry money or credit cards.  You just went down to the post office, honestly the post office, and got a tattoo with your personal identification number. 

I recently heard a TV evangelist predict the “Mark of the Beast” was to be a device implanted under your skin that when scanned would deduct money from your bank account-so I suppose we have given up on the tattoo in lieu of a more modern spin on biblical interpretation.  However it was to happen, it was going to happen at the post office being instructed the postal service had the perfect system to become the purveyor of the mark since they had everyone’s address and would know, by the mail piling up, whom had been raptured and could now be removed from the mail route.

As in all gruesome tales, the last half is much worse than the first. As things are rocking along so well a man "rises up" and declares himself to be the reason for all this great stuff. And, having been deemed credible by the world powers everyone decides to make him their leader.  I always wondered why the prognosticators believed this leader they call the “Anti-Christ” would be an American, since when Revelations was written no one had even heard of the New World. I never asked, since that question seemed like it had sin written all over it.  I worried I had even thought it.

Well, this Anti-Christ is going wage war with the Jews and try to turn the rest of the world against them.  Then there is to be this terrible battle called Armageddon and all the world powers will gather in Israel and there will be blood up to the horse’s necks or something.  Then, just when it reaches the bloody crescendo, out of the clouds comes Jesus accompanied by all the righteous people to defeat the Anti-Christ and his armies.  And get this, the righteous people get to help reign over this new world. 

As much as I have tried to put this out of my life, I am too often reminded of the Rapture and its impending doom.  All I have to do is turn on the TV, read the newspaper, or surf the web.  There are to be signs before all hell breaks loose, literally.  There will be earthquakes, floods, fires, wars or even rumors of wars, you know just a typical day in the life of our planet.  I used to be afraid to watch the evening news or even the local weather forecast.  I just knew while I slept, Jesus would come back, take my family and leave my sorry, sinful fanny right there in the bed.

I also used to worry that if I ever did get good enough to be snatched up into the air with all the other good people my dog would starve, in which case I would get really mad at Jesus for starving my dog.  Once I got good and mad at Jesus again, I would realize I had sinned so I would stop worrying about my dog and begin fearing for my own skin again.  It really was a vicious cycle.

I used to plan how, when I had been left behind, I would get all the food out of the pantry and go live in the woods, with my dog of course, and so escape the mark of the beast.  I wasn’t real sure how I was going to live through the plague of mutant locusts I saw in the movie.  I thought if I could find a cave perhaps I could avoid having my blood sucked out in my sleep.  But I lived in Florida and we didn’t have any caves.  We just had culverts and they were full of spiders.  I figured I’d take my chances with the mutant locusts.  I hate spiders.

It took me years to leave the terror of being left behind, behind. I was well into my twenties before I finally ditched the last bit of nagging doubt and terror- but there are still moments, say when an earthquake is reported, that I feel that old familiar churning in my stomach.  It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is.  I guess I still have some of the Pavlovian effect.  I suppose I always will.  I cringe when I hear these fundamentalists continue to spout this death and doom apocalyptic rhetoric.  I have learned to feel sorry for them though.  I think how sad it must be for them die so disappointed.  I think how crushing it will be to find out that Jesus probably isn’t as bad as they’ve made him out to be and that they aren’t as good as they thought themselves to be.

I used to wonder how Jesus feels about this?  I wondered if he resents his good name and reputation have been tainted by this culture of fear?  But nevertheless, I have forgiven him for scaring me and for giving those backsliding little old ladies cancer.

We’ve talked it all out, Jesus and me.  I told him I wasn’t afraid of him anymore and that I wasn’t going to live in fear of the end of the world.  He reminded me his first miracle was to change water to wine.  Since then, Jesus and I have been on pretty good terms.