PeaceBang

Hark How the Bells

I attended a lovely concert of Christmas music this morning at church, but the thing is, I wasn’t at all in the spirit. The woman’s ensemble was really excellent — they always are — and I just sat there feeling guilty for having arrived late and for not being angelically appreciative of being there, just rarin’ to get into the office and GET SOME WORK DONE. As many pastors recognize, this is a seasonal event that goes with the call at this particular congregation and the one time I missed it I felt lousy about it, just wrong. We have this concert and then the Alliance has their holiday luncheon with those sandwiches on crustless white bread that you can eat 100 of if they let you. I think I ate between 8-10. I would have gone back for more of the roast beef ones, seriously. So it’s the whole morning and by the time you get into the office you’re in a carb-induced bloat and need a nap even though you have a scary long list of things that need doing.

Anyway, when the choir ladies brought out the handbells during the concert this morning I definitely perked up because I love handbells. To be more specific, I love handbells when they’re played imperfectly, because the times I have tried to play in a handbell ensemble I became a nervous wreck and clanged away at all the wrong times and for some reason that strikes me as hilariously funny. So this is what I hope for when the handbells come out: that someone will mess up and then the next person will mess up and there will be this gentle, melodious train wreck of sound coming from these earnestly lovely people with white gloves on who are just trying, dammit, to make the music of the angels.

To my great and tender delight, not only did the last song slowly degenerate into such a confused cacophony of off-rhythm BONGing that the director had to stop the gals and give it a second go, I caught one of the ladies in the first row mouthing an alarmed OH Jesus as she made the first of the mistakes. Lady, whoever you are, you totally made my day and possibly my entire Christmas season. I’m thinking of her now with her pretty white hair and pristine gloves, and her festive red vest going oh Jesus and she is my Special Advent Favorite.

In other silly things that make me unaccountably happy at this time of year, there’s this.

Ready to Love Again

Doesn’t that sound like some kind of corny Lifetime movie channel thing?

Which reminds me of one of my favorite true stories. Some years ago I was on a fun weekend outing in Williamsburg, VA with Scott Wells (TheBoyInTheBands) and we were in our hotel room unpacking. We turned on the television set and ignored it while we chatted and put our things away. At some point I asked, “What channel is this, anyway?” And Scott replied, “Oh, it’s probably Lifetime Channel or something.” “Naw,” I said. “If it was Lifetime it would be a movie about Mare Winningham as an abused wife fleeing her sociopathic husband.” Scott grabbed the remote control and turned on the volume just in time to hear the actor on screen say in a sinister fashion to another actor, “Are you insinuating the I BEAT MY WIFE?” Moments later, Mare Winningham came on screen. We laughed so hard I threw my back out.

ANYWAY, Ready To Love Again isn’t a Lifetime channel movie. It’s SisterBang’s excitement over this little gal born on November 10th:

Some people say when their dog dies that they can never have another dog because it hurts too much to lose the first one. I can understand that, and I respect it. But SisterBang and I both feel that doggies need loving people to care for them and that if you’ve made room in your life for a dog, it’s a wonderful thing to just keep welcoming them for as long as you can, if you can. Gordon was such an extension of SisterBang’s life — the rhythms of her days and weekends were synced to his needs. They were a team. Watching him decline from a robust, shiny-coated canine stud to a deaf and blind, winter-faced, creaky old gentleman was very hard on both of them. He was such a good boy, pushing himself to stay active and to engage with her until he was just too sick to do so. It hurt her terribly to watch him suffer. She will miss him always.

But all kinds of dogs need homes, and SisterBang has been talking to breeders of miniature dachsunds for some time now in preparation for the time she would no longer have Gordon (who was a shelter dog). She may be going to get this pup in February and I’m so happy for both of them. Look at those ear buds! And just imagine the puppy smell.

Wouldn’t it be great if the love between humans was so pure and uncomplicated that, after the loss of one relationship we would feel bruised but immediately ready to love someone again? Cripes, I didn’t dare date for about 6-7 years after the end of my last terrible, tumultuous relationship with a man who turned out to be a pathological liar and a cheating skunk. I figured if my judgment had been that poor (couldn’t have been worse unless it had been a Lifetime Channel character), I shouldn’t trust myself to fall in love with anyone. I haven’t since, and that little debacle was over in 1997. But there’s no need to do that with dogs. Dogs don’t have baggage — if you love them enough and can devote enough time to them, you’re pretty much guaranteed a true romance.

The Souls Of Inanimate Objects

So I go to pick up a chaise I just purchased from Home Goods and I’ve got it in the back of a friend’s truck. I run into a woman I know in the community (not my church, but a church-goer) and she stops to chat. “Did you just buy that?” she asks. I look over at the chaise and I say,very casual-like, “Oh no. That’s just my couch. I’m just taking it for a little ride to get some fresh air.” She looks at me incredulously but I’m totally dead-pan. “It’s such a nice day,” I add.
She gets an expression like she wants to laugh but maybe that would be rude, so she stays silent. We look at each other.

“I think that all inanimate objects have souls,” I say. “So I think it’s important that they not stay cooped up in the house for too long.” She composes herself, remembering that I am a Professional Spiritual Person and I must actually believe this stuff.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do next week when it’s the bed’s turn to go out. I’ll have to borrow a bigger truck.”

She finally allows her eyes to express her opinion of me: she was worried that I was insane, and now she knows I’m just sort of insane.

“You’re pulling my leg, right,” she asks. And I admit that yes, I am. And then she says, “But for a minute there, even though I thought you were crazy, it was sort of a sweet idea. I mean, that objects have souls of their own.”

I tell her that it’s actually not my idea at all, that the Celts and other indigenous religious peoples believe this and so do I (although not to the extend that I take my furniture out for Sunday drives) and that she might like to read Thomas Moore’s book The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life if the idea appeals to her. She says she will because she really liked Care of the Soul by the same author. And we say goodbye and she says to me, “I always heard that you were crazy, but in a good way. I can’t believe you’ve lasted this long in this little town, but we love having you here.” I respond that my couch and I are very touched by her sentiments, and we crack up and say goodbye.

The chaise looks great in the living room. It looks like it’s sitting there thinking, “FINALLY, I’m in just the right place and off that stupid retail floor.” It’s very elegant brown and I’ve got my favorite deep red chenille throw on it, plus two pillows I’ve had for years that just happen to look great with it. It’s very sturdy and I plan to spend many happy and calm hours reading and watching movies in it. I’ve been looking for years for just the right chaise. I’m stupidly happy about it.

“Science Informs”

As a comical addendum to our conversation about being offended by the idea of someone praying for us, I wanted to tell you that a teen-aged boy of my sister’s acquaintance says, “Science informs” when someone sneezes. It’s his way of countering the whole “God bless you” tradition.

It goes like this:

“Achoo!”
“Science informs!”

More Friday Cat Blogging

I don’t understand why the cat is getting fatter even though I’ve cut back on her food and am being really careful not to feed her off my plate.

Then it occurred to me: she’s sneaking out to the car when I’m asleep and using my new GPS system to locate all the fast food joints!!

From now on I’m leaving my keys where she can’t find them, and I think that will take care of that problem. That is, until the snake teaches her how to hot wire a Honda.

The Nefarious Plot Between the Cat and the Serpent

A few weeks ago I saw a cat toy in the hallway when I came in the house. At least I thought it was a cat toy until it began to wriggle across the floor, at which point I realized that it was a SNAKE!!

A SNAKE IN THE HOUSE!

I think I already told you about this, but bear with me.

This wasn’t a big snake. It was actually very small and pretty, so after my initial heart attack I decided I could handle this like a seasoned New Englander. I got some rubber-ended tongs and grabbed the little dude and tossed him into the garden (more accurately, “that mess of plants by the side of the house.”). Suddenly I remembered that if one wants to banish critters from the house, one does well to take them a farther distance than two feet from the front door, so I nabbed the little writhing sucker again, determined to take him out to the woods. But he squirmed and hissed in such a convincing manner, persuading me with all his snakely being that he was Deeply Unhappy with this treatment, I left him where he was with stern admonishment to stay outside.

“I have a CAT,” I told him. “I DON’T want you two to meet.”

And that, dear readers, should have been that. But it wasn’t.

A few weeks later as I was picking basil from my real garden, who do you think slithered right over my foot, looking very handsome and just a few sizes bigger than he had been three weeks before? We had words. I told him that if that was his idea of a neighborly relationship, I had worse than tongs in store for him. I didn’t mind him living in the yard but he was NOT to make personal contact, did he hear? Especially not over my bare foot!! Was he trying to give me a heart attack? He laughed at me from the yard.

The next morning, dear readers, I saw this in the hallway on the way to the bathroom:

What would you have thought?

But it wasn’t. It was, in fact, an old drawstring that Miss Ermengarde had apparently unearthed from somewhere and arranged in that fetching serpentine design for my maximum hysterical reaction.

Then it occurred to me: the cat and the snake are in cahoots! They’re trying to kill me and get the house and the car! And the snake probably wants my job, too!

I went downstairs to find Ermengarde doing yoga and informed her that I was onto her. She of course feigned total innocence,

but I heard her talking on her cell phone late into the night.

We haven’t seen the snake since.

I keep looking for him in the garden because for a snake, he actually has a lot of charm. Maybe he’ll want to come inside and live with us for the winter. He could be very cozy in a little terrarium. Ermie can catch mice for him to eat. It could all be very “Circle of Life.”

Unmarried and Single Americans Week

Well, dang, kids, it’s USA Week!

Kind of interesting to know that, as of 2004 statistics, I’m one of 89 million unmarried Americans, and 53 million who have never been married.

The best thing is that I’m pretty sure that International Talk Like a Pirate Day is sometime this week, so we can celebrate single pirates!! “Argh, matey, come here often?”

What Are You Gonna Do To the Monster?

I tried not to post this but I just watched it again and it still made me so happy so I have to share it.

Not only is the kid a totally adorable, goofy little being (love that bowl cut, those enormous eyes and the gap-toothed grin!), she has those flat a’s that make the punch line even funnier. Honey, you oughta be in picktchas!

Friday Puppy Blogging

My family and I are kinda obsessed with this.

The little nibbly ears!
The little triangular muzzle!
The fact that his person can’t stop kissing him (notice stealth kiss at beginning and in middle of video).
The teeny smwoft paws!

I Know How Harry Potter Ends!

Tonight I was doing the most ultimately Boston thing ever and having beers in the Bull & Finch (aka “the Cheers bar”) with a friend while keeping an eye on the Sox game (we won). She told me she had just finished the last Harry Potter book and I got her to tell me the whole ending. I have to say that it was just so much fun watching her narrate the whole thing with major emotional investment that I think I prefer that to the reading experience.

Are you all DONE with Harry Potter yet? Can we go on LIVING now? CHEEZ!

No, I jest. I loved the first three or four of the books. When it got to the Goblet of Fire, though, I just could not get into it. So sad, but I just couldn’t. But I will always love the Harry Potter series, and Hogwarts is my secret alma mater. To this day, I would be SO WILLING to buy my own ticket to the U.K. or wherever they’re filming the next two installments to be an extra. Please, Mr. Producer! Please! I just really so badly want to walk by in ONE scene with a pointy hat on. PLEASE??? My character doesn’t have to have a name or anything. We’re talking just a simple walk-by in the background. You don’t have to pay me a cent! I just want to be part of the magic.

See? I could DO THAT! I would be really good at it!

If anyone has any connections, you know where to find me. I can leave on a day’s notice as long as I can take a red-eye and be back in time to preach on Sunday.

In case you were wondering, my other two big showbiz aspirations are to sing with the Muppets and to do a very insignificant voice for a Disney film, like maybe one line. You know, like the woman who says “I need six eggs” during the opening number of “Beauty and the Beast.” I can do a French accent if they need one.