Miracle on the beach.

We went recently stayed in a nice hotel near the beach on the Mississippi coast, the one we usually stay at when visiting the beach. After spending the last week and a half doing a whole of lot of babysitting (I heart babies!!!), breaking my toe with a frying pan, getting into a horrid altercation with a particularly nasty lesbo (my fault, I admit) and ripping a jagged hole in my absolute most favorite leather jacket, ruining it forever…my hubby decided I needed a vacation. On the way back from Eddy’s place I was surprised to find us going east rather than west until we wound up on the coast, pulling up to the same hotel that’s become something of a home away from home for me.
I tend to become attached to places now, even cheap hotels on the beach, provided I’ve had special times there. This is the place me and the gang always crash at when we hit the beach. Odd that our hanging out here recovering from sunburns and the fatigue associated with cavorting on the beach all day would endear the place to me. Yet it has. I love that little hotel. I even tend to insist on the same room whenever possible and I endeavor to conveniently forget that anyone else ever stays there while I’m away. I consider the place “my” room. I’m very, very comfortable and relaxing, something difficult for to do in most other instances, is almost automatic there.
Yeah, I’m just weird like that.

Now my husband collects sand dollars. It’s kind of new thing for him and he only has about a dozen, having started this, I’m fairly sure, the first time we went to the beach together (the whole gang). Even in this instance I suppose he considered this a trip to the beach, even though we didn’t actually go to the beach all weekend. Never mind what we did all weekend, that’s none of your business. You cheeky monkey.

Coming out of the shower on Sunday I noticed he’d bought a little packaged sand dollar and there it was sitting on the dresser with the car keys, the kind you might pick up in a gift shop or such. Which is exactly where he got it, natch. I knew instantly that it had occurred to him that since this was a “trip to the beach” that he felt compelled to find and add one to his collection. But since we didn’t actually go to the beach, he’d gone and bought one instead from off a little novelty rack down in the lobby. Which struck me as completely silly and I naturally intended to egg him about it a bit.

Now in the process of this egging the topic of the legend surrounding the sand dollar came up and I confessed interest. It seems one of those things that everyone in the world knows about but me. I’d honestly never heard it before. For those of you unfamiliar the legend holds, rather loosely, that the five slits in the sand dollar represent the five wounds of Christ (one for each nailed hand and foot, plus one from the soldier’s spear). On top of the that a pretty accurate representation of the Easter Lily and the Christmas poinsettia are engraved naturally on the front and back of the sand dollar. Now all that’s fairly interesting but the real kicker is that if you break open the sand dollar (which hubby was excited enough to actually do, once he realized I’d never heard this story and he had the opportunity to be the one to introduce me to it) there are five white doves made of sand inside.
The entire thing is very fragile, vrey beautiful and quite frankly amazing. I was really surprised I’d never heard this before.

Now I tend to be dubious about miracles and any other obvious signs from God but I’m also aware there happen to be plenty of such in the world. Some are obvious and some are so obvious they’re easily dismissed. Ally’s favorite examples are all the astronomical stuff, such as the precise distance of the moon from the earth, just close to stir the tides just so that life is possible without flooding the whole place. That coupled with the fact that this precises distance just so happens to exactly the distance necessary for solar eclipses to occur is pretty interesting. What are the odds? Any closer, no life is possible and no solar eclipses. Any farther…same thing. Ally can stand there and rattle of about a hundred little facts like that and have your head spinning.
A Christian hears that stuff and just nods, hmm, of course. An atheist sees it as proof that the universe is random and all life the product of several orders of insanely improbable happenstances. Which Christians conversely see as proof that atheists are all complete lunatics.
No pun intended.

The sand dollar thing, though. Hearing that was pretty exciting to me, I was honestly awed. When I considered it carefully a bit more I was naturally dubious that this was some overt act of God, though. I’ve seen far too many Christians get swept up with ideas that excited them and end up looking completely foolish to everyone with a brain. My current favorite examples remains all the knuckleheads who still to this day swear that Hurricane Katrina was some act of God. Do not even get me started on how utterly inane that idea is.
Short answer: Luke 13:1-5

So today I went surfing the interwebz on the subject of the Easter Lily and the Christmas poinsettia. I admit I didn’t devote hours of research to this but I still would have expected to find some clear indication that these two plants were biblical symbols. I didn’t find any such thing. The Easter Lily, in fact, seems to have become an “easter” lily sometime after Christ’s death and resurrection, with the early paintings depicting the Archangel Gabriel giving some to the Virgin Mary. Nevertheless it is apparently another example of the Catholic church converting pagan symbols (of which the Lilium Longiforum is such) into Christian symbols. I will admit though that the general term “lily” is used biblically to refer to Christ but no specific kind of lily is usually singled out.
The Christmas Poinsettia is likewise a pretty new thing, dating back to around 1828. It’s a tropical shrub, after all. Not too many of those growing wild in the middle east. In point of fact it wasn’t commonly accepted as the “Christmas” poinsettia until well into the 20th century.

Now all of this doesn’t eliminate the idea that the sand dollar itself might well have been specifically designed to reflect current trends or that current trends themselves have been nudged into place by God to support the mystique of the sand dollar legend. It does however make it extremely unlikely. As unlikely as the distance of the moon from the earth being pure coincidence. And so I’m forced to reject the idea that this is some overt miracle.

Here’s the real kicker, though. I’m fine with that. Yeah, it’s a little disappointing that this oh-so-cool sand dollar legend isn’t a clear cut miracle. Honestly, that would really, really be cool. But the sand dollar itself stands on it’s own as sign of God’s handiwork.
I mean, have you ever taken a good look at these things? They’re amazing! The “sand”, as it happens, isn’t even sand at all, it’s the dried out skeleton of this little ocean larvae that washes up on the beach and gets bleached white by the sun. It’s just the bones of some dead fish that got washed up. And yet when you find one on the beach you have in hand a remarkable little piece of art that’s so fragile you’re a little amazed it survived intact long enough for you to have found it. The likelihood that it’s beauty and fragility are purely accidental is laughable. It’s so clearly one of a million little works of art of which God seems to have flung about the universe by the double-handful.
Absolutely beautiful. Awe-inspiring.

How do you explain to an unbeliever that this is the signature of God writ large across the masterful work of art that is the universe? Well, you can’t. They just don’t get it. You look like silly person trying to something that’s so obvious to you that to those that are so blind to it.
Which I think is the real proof that these beautiful littlethings were designed by God specifically so that we could all enjoy and share in His artwork. Such a thing wouldn’t be so obvious to any but those who are aware of Him. To unbelievers…they’re just pretty little clumps of gritty larvae bones. And so be it.

Lesbians tick me off!!!

Okay, so I recently fussed and whined elsewhere (Theology Online, for those interested) about how it seems half the new people I’m meeting, making the acquaintance of and becoming friends with are lesbians or bi. No kidding. I’ve counted, done the math. Of the last eight acquaintances/friends a full four of them are bi-sexual or outright lesbos. This disturbs me greatly. I certainly don’t feel as if I’m seeking these people out. I like to think I’ve changed in the last couple of years enough that I haven’t that blinking neon logo above my head that says “FEMINIST MAN-HATING LESBO!” anymore.
But apparently there is still something about me that either seeks out relationships with these freaks or attracts them to me. Now, this isn’t necessarily bad. In a couple of cases it’s turned out pretty well. One of the “lesbos” in question I can’t even honestly call a lesbo and I include in that number on only the most tenuous technicality. She was a Christian when I met her and has long since renounced homosexuality, though she admits she hasn’t any interest in men romantically either. The other, a self-professed “bi-”, goes to church with our gang now and is very clearly teetering on the brink of accepting Christ (everybody pause now to cheer wildly before we move on to Mary’s venomous ranting! Woohoo!)

…

Okay, so. On to the ranting, then.

Now, I actually intimated that this was the source of some frustration for me when I wrote about it on TOL but here, on my personal little “sanctuary where reason and wrath prevail”, I’ll really let loose about it.

I had a pretty nasty disagreement with a brand new friend of mine recently. I didn’t curse or threaten to maim her. No I was restrained myself remarkably well. In fact, I may well have had my very first experience with a true, healthy bit of honest wrath. Let’s jump back a bit first and set the scene a little.

First of all, as I’ve been saying, the apparent pilgrimage of every fomo (that’s female homo to you non-fundies) in the area to my doorstep has troubled me a bit, mainly because I can’t quite figure out what going on there. Now of course, I’m not completely dense and even if I were I do go to therapy weekly. My therapist is smart enough for the both of us. Smart enough that I can’t pretend I don’t know it’s likely nothing more than that I simple relate better to these folks having spent half my life living and in fact thinking that way. To be perfectly honest I’m just having major body image issues over the last year, having spent the last decade bulking up to my current butch amazon look and now really wanting nothing more than to look vaguely feminine again. That’s hard work and it takes time. In the meantime all these fomos flocking to me does nothing good for my self-image at all. So in that sense it’s just a rather admittedly unintended personal insult on their part and an irrational bit of self-loathing on mine.

Yet that does nothing to address the issue at hand. It just lays the groundwork for explaining how I lost my temper and totally went for the jugular with the last lesbo I got to know. I was already irritated with all the sexually confused freaks in my life and quite prepared to butt heads with someone about it.

And when Mary is like that, does it usually just take one little word at just the right time, said in just the wrong way, to set her off? Well, of course. Don’t be silly.

And what was the word? Suppose. The word was “suppose“. That’s what ticked me off. And I have to say that “tick” is not the word I would prefer to use, nor does it accurately express what I intend to convey. No, that other word, which is among those I’m trying to ween myself off of, expresses it so much better. Since I’m sure you know what that word is I can now expect that you’ll mentally insert it in place of “tick” and I’m then satisfied enough to move on.

So enough of the groundwork, background, setting the stage stuff. Let’s get to the bloody shoot-out.

I’m walking through the local Wal-Mart (Oh and let me take a moment to mock all the liberal blockheads who might read that and start hyper-ventilating. I love Wal-Mart! Wal-Mart rocks! I give lots of money to Wal-Mart!). Along with me is my newest friend who I just know I’m going to be bestest friends with. Yes indeedy. We’re getting along grandly. Sooo much to talk about.
Of course, I had just found out about an hour before that she was a lesbian. After knowing her for two days. Yeah, two whole days and I never twinked to that. You’d think I’d start asking right up front. But anyways I’m at the “wait and let’s see what she’s all about” stage here. I figure you never know. If she expresses dissatisfaction with the homo life, then great. I’ve an opportunity to present her with alternatives that no one else in this world, so riddled with the vile infection of political correctness, would ever think to offer her. Moreover, I’ve got a personal testimony and the testimonies of several friends to present as well. Worst case scenario, she’s a die-hard man-hating feminist lesbo and I can offer a polite “excuse me while I step out of range of the hellfire comin’ your way” and move on.

But…that “move on” thing didn’t quite happen. No, Mary decided she needed to go off. Because here’s the thing…she just got through telling me the same old lesbo story about falling in love with your best friend and just how awful that was. Every lesbo has this story, you see, usually several versions thereof. Because, you know…falling in love with one’s straight friends is just the most favoritest things that lesbos love to do. Don’t ask me why.
I mean I know why, just don’t ask me.
So she tells me this story and I, of course, respond with something along the lines of, “Well, she knew you were gay, right?” Yes, her friend knew. “So, how do you think that would have made her feel if she knew you thought of her that way?” Yeah, she knew exactly what I wasn’t saying right out and got the message loud and clear. She even frowned for a minute, so I know she got it.
Hey, well pardon me all over the place. I don’t like leaving the obvious unsaid and I’m sure that’s what griped her enough to start getting snarky. Homosexuality is a perversion and it’s completely stupid to pretend it doesn’t cause problems each and every time it sidles up to normalcy. Yes, stupid, your friend knew you were gay and she secretly worried that you might find her attractive or, God forbid, fall in love with her. And you knew she feared that and that’s exactly why you never said anything to her. You just pined and moped and spun ridiculous fantasies about turning your straight friend into a lesbo.
Yes, I know I drew first blood here but at least I was being honest. “Keepin’ it real”, so to speak.

She rapidly changed the subject over to, of all things, me. Specifically, when I decided to go straight and how that’s working out. Of course, she was being a bit snarky by then and the insinuation was clearly that she expected it not to be working out all that well. I actually tried to restrain myself from launching into the stereotypical gushing about “my guy”. I mean, given her attitude I just knew it’d come across badly. Give me a break though, we’re still honeymooning for crying out loud.
So I didn’t do all that well. I gushed a little. I honestly couldn’t help it. I tried to just say, “Pretty good. We’re very happy.” Or at least a slightly wordier and more descriptive version of that. It came out more as, “Great! I honestly never dreamed it would be so wonderful! I’m so in love! He’s the most awesomest! Sigh! Grin!”

Oh, well. Of course I instantly forgot who I was talking to. An amusing and sugar-sweet anecdote immediately sprang to my lips concerning him and chicken-noodle soup the last time I had the flu. I naturally expected the typical response one gets to such things. Such as, “Oooh! That’s so sweet!” Which is why I ended my little anecdote with the question, “Isn’t he sweet?” Because, you know…that’s the normal, socially acceptable response to such a silly story.

Her response?

“I suppose.”

Ex-****ing-cuse me? What the hell was that? “I suppose“?!

Now let’s back up half a step and practice a little thing I like to call “objectivity”. Now from over here in Objectivity Land, why the hell would anyone respond to a chicken soup/isn’t he sweet story with “I suppose”? Only one reason and one reason only. Because you can’t bring yourself to say anything good whatsoever about a heterosexual couple, heterosexuality in general or, specifically, romantic heterosexual relationships with men. The conversation hadn’t degenerated nearly enough that she’d start taking cheap shots at my marriage just to pi…excuse me…tick me off. It hadn’t even begun to degenerate at all yet.
No that followed immediately after “I suppose”.

So in about 1.5 seconds Mary went from “Huh?” to pissed off (okay, fine, I said it!) to claws-in-jugular.

“Whoa. Wait a minute. What was that? ‘I suppose’? What, you can’t bring yourself to even pretend to respond nicely because there’s a man involved?”

“Well…”

“No, that’s it. Because there’s a guy involved you can’t even say, “Oh, that’s sweet”. No, you have to get snarky with some “I suppose” crap.”

“Look, Mary…”

“Save it! You know, ****ing lesbians make me sick. You’ll swear up and down to anybody and their grandmother that you were “born that way” and yet you completely fail to fathom how that does absolutely nothing to explain how much you completely despise men. What, you were born hating men, too? Good God! I’m so damned sick of that crap!”

“Hey, you’re the…”

“You know what? I think we’re done. Let’s cut to the chase. You sleep with women because you hate men. It’s not even an act of love, it’s an act of rebellion and hatred. It’s as simple as that. And if that pisses you off the hear me, of all people, say it then it’s only because you know damned well it’s true.”

“…”

“And if you’re that far gone, what the hell am I doing shopping for diapers in Wal-Mart with you? I must have lost my mind for a minute there. You need to grow the hell up because, here’s a clue sister, men aren’t hurting one bit for lack of women like you. You’re hurting yourself far more than any-damned-body else. Hell, you’re doing the rest of us a favor! You make us look fan-damned-tastic!”

“I…I…”

“It isn’t just the things you do but your entire stinkin’ attitude, your whole damned mentality, that offends God and every thinking being on the planet. You’re a friggin’ blight on this world and I grieve for every single person you’ve poisoned with that crap. And whatever the hell whatever man did to you to make you feel justified in acting this way doesn’t even begin to justify the damage you’ve done!”

“Now look here…”

“You go to hell.”

So. Yeah. I went off a bit. And, yeah, that’s likely not a perfectly accurate transcription of the little tirade I launched into (I didn’t exactly have a stenographer handy). I’m confident I hit the salad points there, though.
I’m honestly not completely sure how to feel about it. Granted, I felt a heck of a lot better after that but I’m acutely aware all that anger wasn’t all for her. Hell, I didn’t know her nearly well enough to be that furious with her. I need at least a week, typically.

On the other hand, I’m actually satisfied that I managed to convey a whole lot that she’ll likely never hear anywhere else and certainly not from anyone who’s opinion she can’t easily render impotent. From me, I think at least she’ll be forced to accept most of what I said, on some level or other anyway. Frankly, I judge it this way: what would my reaction to that have been ten years ago?
I’d have struggled valiantly to deflect everything this raving loony had said but most of it would have went straight to heart. Honestly, the sort of thing has been said to me and now, looking back, I wish it would have been said more often. Much, much more often. By everyone, everywhere, all the time. It would have saved me a whole lot of grief in the end.

So that puts me in a tough spot. I spoke in anger and most of that anger didn’t rightly belong on her. Can you guess where it did belong? Yeah, nothing like a gaggle of lesbos around to bring you face to face with your own past stupidity. Yet, I feel comfortable that I said exactly what she likely had needed for someone to furiously say right to her face for a very long time.

That’s just a weird position to be in. Especially for me. Getting mad and saying the right thing is something I’m not used to.

Where the heck is Mary?

Well, a friend of mine just had a baby…about a month early! So I’ve been busy helping out and I won’t apologize for having a blast, too! Woohoo!

Everybody give a cheer for Eddy, Jimmy and their 5.6 pound, 18 inch bundle of joy named (drum roll, please…) Nathan.

Most for Eddy. Because…you know…she did all the hard work.

Nathan won’t notice if you cheer really loud. He’s seen fit to sleep through all the festivities.

The Deal with Men.

Okay, maybe I have a unique perspective or maybe I’m just completely fooling myself. You decide. I honestly do think that the mystery of man isn’t quite the mystery we’ve all been led to believe it is. I’ve known plenty of men, I’ve had male friends here and there, I’ve worked with men. Moreover, I’ve had a couple of pretty close male friends who’ve stuck with me my whole life. From this I’ve managed to pick up a few things but I didn’t start actually taking notes and paying attention in earnest until I got married. That might sound odd but I honestly wasn’t that interested in really understanding men until then.

Here’s what I’ve got so far:

1) Men value respect more than love.
Okay ladies, here’s one that’ll warp your brain. Practice some objectivity here, though. A man needs your respect, as a friend or a lover, whichever, more than your affection. Certainly both are required but respect is actually more important. If you love him and disrespect him, he’ll feel hated and not loved. If you respect him but do not love him, he’ll still feel there’s a solid relationship there.
This is why the answer to, “Can we still be friends?” is “Are you insane?” No, you can’t still be friends. If a man expresses an attraction to you and you decline, he will not interpret this as a sign that you do not find him attractive but rather that you do not deem him worthy. The difference is subtle but it’s there if you look hard enough. Why in the world would you want to be friends with him? Why in the world would he want to be friends with you, someone who does not value him?
Getting this? This is a core truth of men.
Case in point: I tell my guy “I love you” and he smiles. I tell him “Let’s have sex” and he grins. I tell him “I admire you” and he beams with unabashed joy. It’s bizarre.

2) Men don’t love shoes.
Or a particular dress suit. Or jacket. Or accessory. Clothing is armor to men. Always has been, always will be. How does one evaluate armor? By how it looks, how it makes you look? No. By how good it is at stopping an arrow from sticking you in the chest or an enemy’s sword from piercing your belly. The purpose of armor is to provide protection in battle, that’s it. If you were actually going into life and death battle, who wouldn’t be perfectly comfortable with a horrid-looking suit of armor that renders you invulnerable and shun a pretty, well-shined suit made of aluminum foil? For most men clothing is seen in exactly the same way.
What is the purpose of clothing for men? To protect you from prosecution from public nudity laws. That’s pretty much it. Even men who seem to understand the importance of dress have only twinked to one or two truths: a) dressing well brings respect (see #1 above) and 2) women love a snazzy dresser. In both cases they merely proscribe an additional “purpose” to clothing and that’s it. I’ve yet to meet a man who’s sense of self is impacted in any measurable way by what he’s wearing.
Now, you can rant and rave all you want. Try to prove me wrong by dressing a man in a tux and asking him how he feels about himself. I grant you, he’ll probably answer, “I feel pretty good in this.” But I would challenge you then to toss him his favorite boxer shorts and ratty t-shirt and ask him the same question once he’s donned that. I’m certain you likewise get, “I feel pretty good in this.” For different reason, that particular feel-good, but one no less than the other I’m certain.
In a really weird way it’s actually a complement when your man lounges around in his socks and underwear. It does strike me funny how many women don’t realize that this is all the vulnerability you’re probably going to see in your guy. Moreover most don’t even recognize this as the male expression of vulnerability.
Case in point: The day has come to an end and we retire to bed. The night is still young though and I’m feeling frisky. So I slink into that barely thigh-length jersey I just know he loves and glide into the bedroom. He sees me, notices what I’m wearing and so he shucks his t-shirt and pants…then grabs the t.v. remote. Because obviously we’re all getting comfortable.

3) Men see no link between appearance and self.
This is actually very closely tied to #2 above but I’ve given it it’s own category here to make a very important point. Why is a man’s reaction to your new haircut, whether or not that dress makes you look fat or what shoes you should wear to the social function always disappointing for you and frustrating for him? Because he doesn’t get it. If he doesn’t like your haircut, it has no impact on his feelings for you. If he’s looking at your hair, he’s not looking at you. If he’s looking at you, he’s not seeing your hair. They do not see the connection between the two. You’re continued insistence that they do so frustrates them and makes them resentful. Why? Because to them you are quite obviously expecting them to act like women. Think about it for a second. How is that not an insult to his masculinity? In his mind, if you saw him as a man it would never occur to you to ask his opinion on what shoes to wear. Men don’t get this and they don’t want to get it! It feels girly. Men, believe it or not, do not like feeling girly. Hell, I don’t like feeling girly.
Case in point: “What do you think? The black one or the blue one?” “Oh, God! Just kill me now!” Take a hint.

4) Men don’t need to talk.
“We need to talk.” How could possibly have grown up in this society and not be aware that this is an utterly self-defeating approach to take with a man? Here’s a fun thing to do: say “We need to talk” to a man and watch the iron walls drop down and clang firmly into place. It’s hilarious. Guess what? The conversation is already over.
Men approach talking like women approach sex. For men sex just requires a flat surface. Sometimes not even that. Talking…that requires safety, security, trust and intimacy. Here’s my advice and it has yet to fail me. If you want to talk to a man, do everything you’d want him to do to seduce you into sex. I know this flies in the face of all reason but trust me. Try it one time. You’ll be amazed.
If this also seems overly simplistic…get a clue! Most truths are simple! Men are wired for talking the way women are wired for sex. Moreover, the opposite is just as true. Men are wired for sex the way women are wired for talking. Consider these two things for a bit and you’ll soon see that the behavior of men and women are identical in these two areas. It’s uncanny.
Case in point: Compare these two.

“Honey, I missed you! I’m so glad you’re home! Let’s talk.”
“Oh…uh…I need a shower.”
“You can shower later, I don’t mind. We need to talk. I think…”
CLANG!
“Wha…what was that?”
“Huh?”
“That noise. What was it?”
“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! LALALALALALA!”

“Hey, dear! I just walked in the door from work and we haven’t talked in two days so let’s have sex!”
“You need a shower.”
“I can shower after. Sex!”
“How about a glass of wine? How was your day?”
“Sex!”
“Don’t you want to talk? About something? Anything?”
“Sex, sex, sex!”
“I HAVE A HEADACHE!”

5) Men are killers.
Men solve problems. If there’s a problem, they solve it. If there’s a threat, they kill it. If there’s an obstacle, they devise a means around it. Women love to pick on men about this but I’m always a little amazed and dismayed how often they fail to realize how important this is. I know we’ve all been taught that men dominate the world because they’re dominant by nature. I don’t think that’s quite it. I think they dominate the world because they’re maniacal problem solvers.
Illustrate a conflict to a man and he won’t waste time talking it over, considering all the ramifications and projecting the impact of various approaches to the situation. He picks up a club and goes and hits it until it’s dead. Now, this backfires a lot and for obvious reasons. Almost always you can consider the matter for a minute and come up with ten different ways the situation could have been handled better. Consider it for two minutes and you can rattle off a hundred ill consequences that will stem from the “club it” approach. Still, at the end of the day that problem is dead. In fact, it was dead about thirty seconds after it poked it’s head out of the ground and started causing trouble. This is how men dominated the world. Granted, it’s also a large part of why the world is in the mess it is but I often wonder if women really could have done any better. Far too many of those problems out there are of the sort that sneak up and club you while you’re discussing the matter. So I can see how the hunter/gatherer mentality very quickly adopted the “kill it first” approach.
Talking with a man about a problem is a dumb idea. If you want to discuss the problem, you must make it clear right up front that what you want is to discuss the problem. If he fails to “get it” and immediately starts offering solutions, just sigh and go with it. Once a solution has been agreed upon, then you’ll find he’s perfectly willing to discuss the matter. Moreover and more to the point, you’ll often find your discussion of the matter leads to further, superior solutions to the problem. In the end everyone has expressed their feelings on the matter, the problem has been thoroughly investigated and the superior solution has likely been agreed upon. This, I think, is a perfect illustration of why the man/woman unit is superior to any other model. Women’s solutions, let’s be honest, tend to be crap. They rarely solve the problem. Women, instead, tend to alleviate the damage and discomfort a particular problem presents. Men, meanwhile, are great at killing problems. Man + woman = super mega problem response team.
Now if the women on such teams can learn when to shut up and let the guy go kill the problems that offer immediate threats and the men on such teams can learn to stifle the “kill it!” response in cases where no immediate threat is offered…then your team will truly rock.
Case in point: Never, ever, ever offer even the appearance of a problem to a man directly. Utilize the technique presented in #4 above to seduce them into a conversation, carefully present the problem, move smoothly past the response and then discuss the matter. Be prepared to agree to a solution, however. This is required. Men cannot be presented with a problem and denied the right to aggressively pursue some solution or other.

Approach A
“Honey, I think our daughter has a crush on Timmy Jenkins. I’m pretty sure from that look on her face that he kissed her last night. Don’t you think that…”
“I’ll get the shotgun.”
“What? No! Wait! Wait!”
FAIL!

Approach B
“We haven’t talked like this in a long time. You really don’t mind the socks and t-shirt?”
“Of course not. I’m want you to be comfortable. More wine?”
“Mmm.”
“Anyway, like I was saying…I really admire the way you handled that thing that happened that time.”
“Aww, shucks. ’tweren’t nuthin’.”
“That reminds me, though. I think there may be something going on with our daughter and Timmy Jenkins.”
“What?! What’s going on!”
“Well, I’m pretty sure she’s developing a crush on him. I think they kissed last night.”
“That little (censored)! I’ll kill him.”
“Yes, he is a little (censored). So, you agree we should kill him? How should we go about it?”
“I’ll get the shotgun.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think we should consider this carefully. There’s time. We want to be sure we handle it the best way possible.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Well…”
SUCCESS!

Cinnamon Toast is Love Incarnate.

Okay, so you’ll think I made this up but I promise it’s true.

The other day (Friday, I think) my step-son comes home from his mother’s and after we all got settled in he says he wants a snack and heads to the kitchen. Now, apparently mom hadn’t fed him all day (to hear him tell it anyway) but we’re still a couple hours out from supper so I said, “Wait. Hold up. Let’s just get something that’ll tide you over until supper.”
So he wants cinnamon toast. The guy’s a glutton for cinnamon toast. I really think he’d have that for supper and be happy with it.

So I’m in there spreading butter, concentrating on putting just enough butter that it tastes good but not so much that I can’t keep fooling myself into believing this isn’t a terribly unhealthy snack. And thinking how wonderful life is with these two guys all snuggled up with me on the couch watching t.v. And are my jeans getting a little loose? Do I need to go jeans shopping? What about the that darned black gunk on the floor near the back door? What is that, some kind of alien goo? Have aliens been rummaging around in my kitchen? Why didn’t I clean that up yesterday? Should I set traps? What kind of trap is best for alien kitchen invaders?

My step-son comes in and asks me, “Whatcha doin’?” Which basically means, “I’ve missed you so terribly I’m willing to discuss the mechanics of cinnamon toast just to have a conversation.”
So I said, fully distracted by all the incredibly important considerations of the moment, “Just putting cinnamon toast on your bread.”
…
He:
Me: “Oh…I didn’t just say that.”
He: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Nope. Didn’t say it. You’re hearing things.”
He: “Thought I heard you say, ‘Putting cinnamon toast on your bread.’”
Me: “Nope! You’re mistaken. That’d be a silly thing to say.”
He: “Good thing I recorded it on my secret microphone.”
Me: “Nothing to record. Didn’t say it.”
He: “I can play it back…”
Mary: “Noting to play back. Didn’t say it.”
He: “Are you sure you didn’t say it?”
Me: “Yup. Totally sure. Shut up.”
He: “‘Cause I think I’ve got my new ring tone…”
Me: “Out! Out of the kitchen!”

We’ve totally ruined this guy. Seriously.

I have to say, I grieve that I missed the baby days with this kid. I really, really do. At the time, when I did manage to pop in and visit, I was too busy wholly despising and furiously envying Matthew’s first wife for her ability to reproduce to actually enjoy this kid as a baby. Honestly, big-boobed, blue eyed and blonde wasn’t enough? First time I saw that little baby in his knitted hat, grinning, drooling and yelling, “Yayayayaya!” all I could think was, “Oh, God, I hate her so much!”

On the other hand I’m loving this kid. Seriously. He’s made of win and awesome.

I’m gonna find that darned microphone and hide it somewhere, though.

Those Evil Gay Ministries.

Until very recently I never bothered to look into all the gay ministries out there. I’d never heard anything good about any of them and I suppose I’d always just considered them all more or less vile and despicable. Before I gave my life to Christ I don’t mind saying I hated and despised all of them. I largely assumed they were the product of those wacky Christian fundies out there who were all so obsessed with a puritanical stifling of their own sexuality that they felt compelled to control everyone else’s as well. It didn’t surprise me one bit that whole ministries would spring up designed to do nothing more than prey on people’s insecurities and lure the confused into their clutches to be cruelly tortured so that the evil fundies could alleviate their own self-loathing.

Naturally when I became a Christian myself it never even occurred to me to seek out any of these ministries for help or guidance. I still assumed them to be abominations at worst and dangerously misguided at best. I knew some strong, faithful and fairly wise Christians already and knew enough about basic Christian beliefs that I really didn’t feel compelled to seek out anything like that anyway. I already knew that the bible condemns any sex outside of marriage, though I’d never read that personally. I’d been told this several times by the Christians I knew before. When it came time it only took a couple of hours of research for myself to confirm that pretty solidly. So it seemed logical to me that my sexuality was suddenly a non-issue. I should no more fornicate with a woman than with a man so what the heck difference did that really make in the end? Not a bit of difference. So I didn’t fornicate any more. Problem solved. No big deal.

Well, actually…it was a big deal but I was at least wise enough to realize that it shouldn’t be. While I was blessed enough that my rebirth as a Christian brought with it a rather profound change in my sexuality I was still somewhat hypersexual and still attracted to women. I simply, suddenly lacked the parching thirst I never even realized until then that I’d had. I’ve since learned that even that is actually rare among homosexuals who experience being saved the way I did (although to be honest, I think that’s generally more of a gay male thing). In fact, it seems there is a wide variety of ways people experience it in the first place. Some don’t even have anything like a single seminal transformative event and spend years of their lives slowly changing spiritually instead. Folks with my bible-belt background tend to expect a sharper, more specific conversion. The whole face down in a hotel bathroom kind of thing or being called down the aisle at church service.

But, no. Let me be bold and come right out and say that I rather strongly doubt those that claim to be Christians but didn’t experience such a thing. I know plenty of atheists and agnostics who claim to have been Christians all their lives until one day for one reason or another they just lost their faith. I don’t know of any of them who claim to have had a conversion experience, though. I tend to assume any “Christian” who hasn’t experienced this is a church-club Christian. Not saved, not redeemed, not bought by Christ. Just a member of the church club. The “depart from me, I never knew you” kind of “Christian”.

But back on topic. Once I accepted Christ and experienced that spiritual overhaul I was still sexually unhealthy and still attracted to women. The thing that surprised me was that the complete and sudden loss of my craving for this perversity seemed to have had a dramatic effect on the actual attraction itself. While I still found women sexually attractive, I didn’t crave the perversity of it the way I had in the past. Instead, I disliked this attraction of mine. It bugged me.

The perfect example of what I’m talking about here is one of my new favorite movies. “Prey for Rock and Roll“.

Love that movie. Love it! The star? Gina Gershon. Love Gina Gershon (well, as an actress, not so much as a person). The thing is though that I discovered Gina Gershon first in “Bound” (nope, not even gonna link to it, find it yourself), another movie she starred in and the one that made her a fave for lesbos everywhere. Even though she plays a presumably straight rock and roller in “Prey for Rock and Roll” I’m sitting there watching that movie and I keep getting distracted thinking about Corky from “Bound”. Consequently Gina’s looking pretty hot to me and that just bugs me. I totally identify with Jacki (Gina Gershon) in that movie and that’s the reason I love it soooo much! The character “Animal” really reminds me of my guy, too. So I really get a serious thrill over the scene in the tattoo shop when the sparks first start flying there. Thinking about the infamous kiss with Corky in “Bound” turns me on to Jacki though and that just irritates the heck out of me. Really ruins the ride. In the end I can’t help watching “Prey for Rock and Roll” and wishing someone else played the lead role there. But who the heck could? I gotta admit, I don’t think anyone else could pull it off. But, dammit, I want to watch “Prey for Rock and Roll” and identify with the main character not want the main character. You get what I’m saying here?

In the end though that’s about as much of a bother my sexuality ever was for me for the first year or two after I became a Christian. Which really kind of makes me feel bad for complaining. How many Christians who struggle with homosexuality would kill for that to be the extent of their difficulties? I’m really such an ungrateful little brat sometimes.

Which brings me around in my typical round-about way to the point of all this. For the longest time I despised gay ministries. Even after I became a Christian I despised them. I never even considered seeking such a ministry out for guidance. Instead I did what seemed obvious to me and simply rejected fornication itself, like any new Christian with a lick of sense. I spent a year or so with no romantic interest in my life and, frankly, no interest in romance in my life. Now, sure I would have loved to be in love and all that but it just wasn’t that big a deal. I had plenty of friends and many of them were intimate friends. My loneliness was thus tempered and being a new Christian I was still quite enamored with God Himself, choosing that particular personal relationship over any other. Even when I did find myself pining for a romantic partner of some kind I didn’t find that particularly difficult to deal with. I simply reminded myself that I was essentially in no different a situation than if I’d ended such a relationship a month or even a week before. As I’ve said elsewhere, celibacy is the default state of being anyway, right? Pining for a romantic relationship is an emotional trap that you set for yourself and willfully walk right into. I considered the whole thing basically foolish.

The thing is…once I’d lived that way for a good while and learned how to be celibate naturally and comfortably (rather than forcing it on myself as some rigid self-imposed limitation like the very word “celibate” seems to imply) that’s when things changed for me, right out of the blue. I never approached celibacy like some nun who felt compelled to spend the rest of her days in knee-length black robes, struggling with desire. I simply shrugged it off. I lived my life and simply gave my flesh an irritated frown (and sometimes a little kick to the shin) whenever it whined about not getting any. Sure it was irritating and sometimes frustrating but I never let it convince me it was the all-important end-all be-all of existence, as it seems to be to so many people these days.

I never prayed to God to remove homosexual lust from me. What a ridiculous thing to pray for! I prayed instead that He help me keep a healthy perspective about sex itself. Sex isn’t necessary to survival. You don’t need it. It isn’t required. Yes, believe it or not you can even go all day without it.

So months down the road when I did finally take a look at all the controversy surrounding these ministries, what did I see? Every single time I saw a bunch of homos bitching and whining about looking for a cure to homosexuality in Christ and being abused by those awful homo-hating Xian fundies. Always the homo in question defined “cure” as replacing their homosexual lust with heterosexual lust. Always they wanted to change fornicating homosexually with fornicating heterosexually.

You idiots. You bunch of total idiots. And you’re surprised that this didn’t work out?! So what do we find when these morons are allowed to wrap up their snarky little bitch sessions? Why, we find that they naturally found another church. One that catered to homos. And how, in that church, they were taught that God made them that way and being a homosexual Christian was just hunky dory. Oh and of course the minor fact that they had a homosexual lover they were fornicating with regularly now and just how happy they were with that.

Now back up and take a second look at that. A church in which they’re taught fornicating is fine and dandy. Once you get that simple observation firmly ingrained in your brain then add in the fact that the fornication we’re talking about is homosexual in nature. Do you see now what we’re talking about? Having finally taken a look and seeing all this for myself the whole problem with these ministries seemed glaringly obvious to me. Those homos don’t want to be cured of their sexual immorality, just their homosexuality! And they don’t even see any intrinsic link between the two! They are incapable of perceiving that you cannot even begin to touch your homosexuality until you first deal with your sexuality!

In my own life the answer I suppose seems so obvious. 20/20 hindsight, I guess. I lived a celibate life and I let it be natural. And it really is natural, after all. It is fornication that is unnatural! I was naturally celibate and I allowed my lust to be the aberration, not the other way around. Homosexuality hardly even entered into it. It was clear to me that the gay ministries then were all approaching the whole matter from a seriously screwy direction. They were not only trying to teach people to control and suppress sexuality, rather than simply let go of it. No, even dumber than that they were trying to teach homosexuals to do this. That all involved in such idiocy would fail in a stunningly spectacular fashion didn’t surprise me in the least.

Now let’s flash forward a good bit so I can get to the my real point. Yes, there’s lots of interesting details I’m remiss in not laying out here but I really want to get to my main focal point of fury. Here we are today and I’m married. Of course I suppose I must specify that I’m married to a man, since there seems to be so much confusion about what the word “marriage” means anymore. Apparently one can marry a cucumber these days and get it legally and socially recognized as a marriage. But no, here in reality-land a marriage is a covenant between a man and a woman.

Having come to this point in my life I find that I have all these issues that I have no one to talk about with. I have God of course and we do indeed discuss these things often and at length. But we all desire and do most certainly benefit from fellowship with other human beings as well. I find I really, really want another woman to talk to who’s suffered the things I’ve suffered and deals with the same problems that I deal with. I tried a Christian incest survivors forum for a while but I eventually had to give up and accept that I just didn’t belong there. I tried to hang in there long enough to become eligible for the restricted forums where I hoped I would find people I could identify with and discuss some very specific issues with. I simply couldn’t hack it, though. I won’t say why because that would require characterizing that forum in an unfair way. I’m very thankful the forums exists and I know that it helps those who visit it but it honestly got quite severely on my nerves.

Since then I’ve tried a couple of times to surf the net looking for something similar. It just doesn’t seem to be out there. I suspect in fact that if it does exist then it’s so deeply buried under the morass of pro-gay crap out on the internet that no selection of search criteria will ever reveal it, no matter how many “I’m a happily fornicating gay Christian!” sites I might wade through looking.

But it isn’t just pro-gay crap burying it, though. I noticed a few gay ministries here in there in the mess as well. It didn’t take long for my frustration at not finding what I was looking for to give way to curiosity. I finally realized that my certainty that gay ministries were all abominable was based almost exclusively on secular media and the testimonies of “ex-ex-gays”. It finally occurred to me to actually look at the ministries themselves and see what they had say.

Now I’m pissed off. Really, truly and completely pissed off. I’ve spent years firmly convinced all these gay ministries are all homo-hating pits of hellish sadistic torture. And yet when I finally take a look at Exodus International I find they’ve been saying for some time exactly what I’ve been saying for the last fifteen minutes.

And who convinced me that they were all homo-hating sadists? So much so that it never even occurred to me to listen to what these ministries had to say? The God damned (yeah, I said it!) homos and the homo-loving media. BEGOTTEN OF DOGS, the whole lot of you! How the heck it ever entered my mind that these perverts and pervert-loving freaks would ever DARE present anything remotely approaching an objective view of such ministries boggles me. What a fool I’ve been!

I thank God that He was there for me, loving me and teaching me the simple truth. Were I at the mercy of the world I’d be fornicating with my girlfriend right now in the pews of some pseudo-Christian church in California, wondering why I’m still so utterly miserable when I have everything the world says I should have.

Don’t even ask. I have no idea.

Come, boy
Attend to your mistress

Throw open the chamber door
then seal it quietly behind again

Here, now
take this blade from my hand
and take care, boy
A twinge of fear at that parting
don’t let it touch the floor
and mind the blood

I’ll pretend to consider the sunset
through this window here
while you make it clean and sharp
for your mistress
again

On the stand, now
(a nod) over there
elevate the grip
make it ready for me
for the morning
then come

Come, boy
attend to your mistress

loosen these buckles
but don’t yet release me
stand at hand, boy, and hear
the number of names I don’t know
that I’ve slain
in the fields outside this house
this very day

No doubt they stink by now
worms and buzzards have to eat
but I’m not proud
feeding the fat earth
that gluttonous whore
She’s had enough to eat

First, these pterygyes
their flapping bothers me
now the belt…
is the door fast?
are you certain, boy?
mind your duties

Come, boy
attend to your mistress

take this weight from my shins
remove these boots
don’t mind the wool yet
only the gauntlets
you will oil all this well tonight
I’ll expect so tomorrow

Now the plate
carefully, quickly
there is a moment
when it blocks my sight
and I’m blind
never mind

Seal the window
light the lamp
and check the door again…
take the dagger from my belt
clean the blade, the clean weight
ready it for my hand
near the bed on the stand
now, then

Come, boy
attend to your mistress

Remove the cloth
show reverence, boy
and wash
while I trust
you won’t miss a spot
Is the door locked?
Where is the key?
oh mind you, boy, that key

Don’t tremble so now
only my enemies
should ever so tremble
there is nothing in you
that isn’t mine
doesn’t that comfort?

comb my hair now, boy
one hundred strokes, remember?
does it yet shine?
tomorrow we take Avalon
and I must present the proper vision
of hell at the gate

Come, boy
attend to your mistress

and never you mind
if I turn my face to your chest
and weep
for the only good thing
I have left to defend

[The most disturbing thing about this one? The Josey Wales homage here: " worms and buzzards have to eat". I have no idea why that's so important there but it is. My muse must be on crack or something.]

…so then this just popped out. My muse is weird.

How strange
once a warrior
a violent rage
my crimson hair
once a flame
eager for blood
untamed

Now meek and tender
trusting, kind
my blades cut bread
and tend wounds

Dug this old one up a while ago and it kinda struck me…

The carnage blown by angry winds
That bloody sunset
This stench of war and those fat crows
All this rage

My company has fallen behind
They trip and slip and stumble
They sound the retreat but I have time
For one more murder

Come closer. You there! All of you.
Crowd around me
Oh you cattle
Have at me

My skin is bright and hard
Blooded head and heart and hands
My fury opens wounds a thousand miles away
Bread and butter glory.

You fools, don’t you know?
I am reborn in every warm and welcome womb of gore
I steal your breath. I eat your heart. I wash in your blood.
I wear your flesh and scent, my trophy

My trophy

Mine

Here’s a funny joke. You’ll love it.

I’m going to tell you a joke now. Maybe you’ll get it and maybe you won’t.

I have a friend name Joana. Joana is a lesbian and she’s been a friend of mine for some years now. Since she lives here in Louisiana and that’s where I first met her I never really got a chance to get very close to her since I spent that last decade mostly in California and elsewhere. Our friendship grew slowly and we probably communicated more over the phone during those years than in person. I remember when I first resolved to move back home to Louisiana that spending more time with Joana was one of the main selling points for me.

Now Joana has been celibate for some years now and that’s not so much because she’s a Christian but rather because she’s come to the conclusion that she’s really very bad at intimate relationships. As a Christian she’s perfectly aware that homosexuality is an abomination but that isn’t why she doesn’t date. It just makes it easier for her not to do so. If you asked her (and I know because I’ve asked) she’d tell you that even if she were capable of sustaining an intimate relationship with another woman she still wouldn’t want to, for spiritual reasons. It’s simply that practical concerns have already rendered that a non-issue.

I really do try to support her but honestly have to refrain from encouraging her to go straight. We’ve discussed it and I know full well that this just isn’t something she’s ready for. She may well never be. I can’t help wanting that for her but I know I’m only projecting. She reminds me so much of myself at that time of my life that it’s too easy to forget she ain’t me.

It occurs to me that I never bothered to point any of this out to my husband. He only knew that Joana was a lesbian, that we had been friends for a long time and…well, that’s about it. I honestly tend not to discuss private matters my friends relate to me to everyone else willy-nilly and so it had just never come up. So when Matthew began popping up out of nowhere every time Joana and I were together it struck me a little odd. Once I became aware of this it really became quite obvious that he always seemed to go out of his way to be on hand when she was going to make an appearance.

Then came the day when I came home and found her there.

With my husband.

While I had been away.

Granted, she’d only just arrived and had apparently come looking for me. I’d forgotten I’d agreed to go with her to help pick out some things shopping in another city. This did not much alleviate my furrowed brow however. Joana, you see, isn’t your typical short, fat dyke. Like me, she more of the tall, well-toned amazon type. This is why I think I identified with her so well. Perhaps too well.

It occurred to me that she might be Matthew’s “type”. He finds me quite attractive after all. Or so he claims.

Did I mention she has a very nice tan? I do not tan. I would love to tan, you understand, but my Irish heritage forbids it. I really envy her nice tan.

Matthew, I suspect, enjoys a nice tan on an attractive woman. Did I mention Joana is a very attractive woman? Are you getting where this is going yet?

It was not long at all before I began to feel some very not-nice things about my friend, Joana. And my husband all the more. I think maybe all of two seconds. I began to feel in fact that someone might require a sound beating soon. But being human and by nature prone to avoiding discomfort I left the matter alone. Instead I simply worried obsessively about it and began to panic more and more whenever the two of them made eye contact or stood in the same room with each other. I went out of my way to meet with her where he couldn’t be around. I began to politely invite her to leave when he showed up. I think I even mentioned something snarky to him about maybe giving me six seconds of peace with my friend without butting in.

Very quickly I found he stopped coming around Joana. I wasn’t sure if he simply became aware that he was behaving inappropriately or aware that I felt he was behaving inappropriately. Regardless, he backed off and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Until Joana clearly started wondering what she’d done wrong and started pursuing him. She even asked if Matthew was mad at her one day because, golly, he seemed to be avoiding her. And they were beginning to get along so well. She really liked Matthew. You know, my f—ing husband.

Blood. Boiling.

Just about the time I was really gearing up to do something completely irrational Joana threw me off guard by asking me if my husband had a problem with her coming around me. It took a few seconds to wrap my head around that (and stifle the impulse to choke her for daring mentioning my husband’s name in my presence). By this time you see I was already beginning to entertain mental images of the two of them doing things together that made we want to eviscerate someone.

After collecting myself and putting forth the proper face of someone who isn’t completely insane, I waved the idea away. I had lots of friends and frankly three or four that I was a lot closer to than Joana. Matthew had never had a problem with any of them. As far as Joana being a lesbian I couldn’t entertain the notion that this was a problem for him either. He was, after all, married to me. Further, It’s not as though Joana was living the lifestyle or anything and she was, in fact, a church-going, bible-thumping celibate Christian. Why golly gee whiz, I was certain that Matthew even admired her quite a bit. There was absolutely no cause for concern.

I’m so good at laying it on thick. Really, I’m a master of it. Had her convinced all was well and proper in under twenty seconds.

This did prompt me to finally get off my butt and resolve this situation before someone got stabbed. After Joana left I took a moment to get my head screwed on straight so that I could bring up this matter with Matthew without screaming hysterically. I entered the kitchen, smiled prettily and chatted with him while I made us coffee. Then we went out on the back porch to scratch the dog and watch the sunset.

Once everyone was comfortable, at peace and completely not obsessing crazily that their husbands were cheating on them six months into their marriage I very calmly asked him, “So…what’s going on with you and Joana?”

To which he put down his mug, furrowed his own brow and replied, “Mary…why don’t you tell me what the hell’s going on with you and Joana?”

Scoobydoosaidwhat?

How long did it take Mary to figure out what the hell he was talking about? Two seconds? Five? How about ten?

Insecurity is just so much fun, innit? Really spices up your life.

It took us all of five minutes to straighten out the whole matter. My shame at having assumed the worst that I was so blind to the obvious tempered only by the awareness that he’d done the same. We’re such a couple of friggin’ idiots. And poor Joana. It would take me two more days before I could muster up the nerve to tell her what I’d been thinking.

Her response was something along the lines of, “Mary…I think you must be f—ing crazy or something.”

It turned out the be pretty damned hilarious, really.

About a week later, I mean.

The moral of the story? TALK to your spouse! It’s unbelievable the stupidity, insanity and inanity that perpetuates simply because we don’t first presume to do this one simple thing whenever there’s a problem.