"Keep your husband off my husband"

I try to avoid serious topics in this online blathering of mine, but the recent news about a decision by the Episcopal bishops has me scratching my head. They promise to exercise restraint in consecrating gay bishops or face serious splintering within the denomination.

Why must they restrain themselves? Are they in any danger of going on a spree, wildly and with great abandon elevating random homosexuals to the see? My hunch is that they're unlikely to raise anyone to that level who isn't an Episcopal priest already, right? Right? And what do these would-be splinter groups fear from newly created gay bishops? Unsolicited fashion advice? That the traditional dog collars and "bishop purple" will be wantonly cast aside for something with lace and a subdued but elegant tone-on-tone stripe?

My mother's church in the 70s was ripped apart by faction fighting over a gay priest. My mom, bless her, took the side of the gay priest, but she watched many of her friends and fellow Vestry members leave for more traditional parishes, taking about half the congregation with them. While my mom was a comparative liberal in her day, I would never call her a leftist--or even terribly enlightened. She thought that homosexuality was possibly a psychological disorder that was simply a nuisance to the one who had it but no danger to anyone else. But you wouldn't want someone with OCD or bipolar disorder to be kept from delivering God's word, would you, if they seemed to have something valid to say? Mom felt that God was capable of speaking through anyone--humans were vessels, not sacred in and of themselves. And my understanding of Christianity tells me that this is an orthodox Protestant belief, not radical in any way.

And yet we have a group who want no gay clergy and no one blessing the marriages of homosexual couples. And it's this last one that really slays me. How are same-sex marriages any kind of threat to my marriage? Is heterosexual marriage, even mine with Nearly Perfect Husband, so frail and delicate a thing that it might fall apart because that lovely couple across the street tied the knot in Toronto?

The couple in question are legally married according to Canada, but their union is not recognized here in Maryland. They are nearing middle-age, totally in love with each other, and utterly devoted to their lives together. Isn't this what society wants people to do? My mother lamented that her homosexual friends--and she did have many--were promiscuous. If that were true, then shouldn't we be doing everything we can to celebrate the happy union of the couple across the street because they've promised to be faithful and stable? Shouldn't we do everything we can to support all couples who promise to be together forever and enrich each other's lives, including attending their weddings and their children's christening or naming ceremonies?

How on earth is my marriage threatened by the couple across the street? Sure, Jeff is adorable and anyone should want him, but they've promised themselves to each other. And should one of them stray and make my husband an inappropriate offer, remember, he's straight. Oh yes, and married. And one of the tenets of marriage, as I've repeated all too often in this post already, is that the couples promise to be faithful to each other. Anyone might break a marriage vow--plenty of straight people do. But the pressure from society (and, of course, the love of their spouses) should give them pause, gay or straight.

I don't feel threatened by the couple across the street. My marriage is more likely to suffer from my husband's friendship with the straight man in our neighborhood who has awe-inspiring power tools and an encyclopedic knowledge of how to restore crumbling historic houses like our own.

Neither do I feel threatened by a sermon delivered by a gay man or lesbian. (And no, those of you who know me, this is not because I'm unlikely ever to get my butt into a church where I could hear such a sermon!) I refuse to believe that any God would by so stingy with the Word that gay and lesbians could be unable to receive it and then pass it along to those hungry to hear it. If such a God exists, I'm willing to risk the flames of eternal damnation by refusing to follow along.

Until humans can invent a more loving and compassionate God, I'm going to continue to sleep in on Sunday mornings.

All the president's homeys

Who knew that MySpace is now the paper of record?

I'll give you a moment to catch your breath after that shocker. Meanwhile, I'll fill you in on how I made this discovery.

The other day my 12-year-old daughter stormed into my room in a fury. "Anyone can see your MySpace page!" she complained. "I told my friend you had one, and she found it. And it mentions my name. It's not fair!"

Ah, the resounding cry of American children: "It's not fair!" Poverty, famine, disease--these things aren't fair. But economically comfortable suburban kids who aren't allowed MySpage pages when their mothers have them are not high on my sympathy list.

"If you didn't want her seeing my page, you shouldn't have told her I had one," I pointed out. It's not as though any kid that age would do a random search for local moms on MySpace and whoops, there I'd be.

"But all my friends will see that you have a page!" Fiona wailed. She was truly distressed. Her other friends have pages, although the site asks for members to be at least 14. I won't let her break the rules, and besides, I'm envisioning pedophiles hiding behind every link. But I maintain a page so that I can check periodically to see what her friends are up to and if she's lied about her age to set up a page; and now anyone who cares to search for local moms can see that. I understand her concern, but too bad. Mom's got a page. Stop blabbing about it if you're embarrassed.

Then yesterday, I saw that the Washington Post Magazine is looking for a new columnist with a "fresh yet familiar voice." For someone who's been daydreaming lately about writing a column someday, this was an opportunity not to be missed. So I copied a couple of these blog entries into an e-mail and sent it along to the editors just in case they might give me a shot.

I don't expect to hear from them. But I would hate myself forever for not trying, and believe me, over the years I've learned to handle rejection. I've had plenty of practice at it.

Now, Fiona was delighted that I sent in the samples. I warned her that if I was selected--which wasn't likely--that might not be such a great thing for her. I'd write about her occasionally, and possibly a million people would read about it. Didn't she hate that I mentioned her on the MySpace page? This is the Post.

"No, Mom, that's totally cool," she said. "Mention me all you want. It's not like it's MySpace. No one I know will see it in the paper."

I think the Post should get a MySpace page.

In which our Author bludgeons one T. Shandy, Gent.

I finally finished Tristram Shandy. This was no easy task; in fact, reading this classic took me the better part of a month, and it offered me little joy. In retrospect, the reasons for committing to finish it seem tame: 1) it's an 18th-century comic novel, and I generally like that sort of thing; 2) I think I recall that my dad was fond of it; and 3) I absolutely refused to believe that the narrator would never get to the point. I know that's the conceit of the book, but I couldn't believe that 478 pages after embarking on this "sentimental journey" (another book by Sterne that was well worth the effort I put into it), after many promises by the narrator to get to the point, I ended the book feeling not only that I hadn't made any progress whatsoever but also that perhaps my copy had the last page missing.

I can't say I wasted that month of reading, but I feel the same way I do when I work out solidly all week and then find that the scale hasn't budged. What's the point? I know I've gained some benefit by exercising my body or my mind, but it's hard to grasp.

Then the other night, Jeff and I were enjoying delicious margaritas and Mexican food at a place called Samantha's, and we were talking about the blogs I read and some of the "characters" I follow. I can be quiet the callous author, you know. I understand intellectually that these people writing the blogs are sentient human beings, but I think I see them more as book characters. I'm always wanting them to further the plots of their lives, and I get quite frustrated when they don't.

There's one in particular whose entries can be extremely dull. She admits her life is going nowhere. She's depressed and sees little hope for improving her situation. And yet there's this spark--I feel that she could pull herself out of her funk, get her life together, and start writing some good stuff. I keep believing, but she has yet to deliver.

"She's your Tristram Shandy," Jeff observed. "You're so sure she's going to get to the point. I'm telling you: She'll never get to the point."

He's probably right. And he actually knew this person once upon a time, so he's not just basing his observation on stereotyping. I know that people who live in that perpetual fog don't find the way through the gloom more often than they do. But I have to believe that it's possible that this "character" will come out on top. Or at least, that she will find a way to go down in flames rather than sighs.

But we all shine on...

Jeff turned up something when searching for my engagement ring that, on first hearing, absolutely appalled me. Finding a diamond that was "cruelty free" was his number-one priority. He had filled me in on the evils of De Beers and the diamond industry in general--I'm ashamed I knew nothing about it at the time, but what the hell, I never expected a man to buy me a diamond.

So in his search for high-quality, lab-created diamonds, he turned up this: www.lifegem.com. I found this idea of making diamonds from your loved one's carbon remains to be repellent at best. But when he told Fiona about it much later, she was electrified by the idea: "I want to be a diamond!"

Now, Fiona's an old soul. If there's any such thing as reincarnation, she's lived, and therefore died, many times. It's clear from the mistakes I've made, however, that this is my first time around. And I've already lost my fair share of loved ones, so it was natural for me to be thinking from the point of view of the survivor and not the deceased. I did not want to wear Mom. It never once occurred to me what it would be like to be the diamond myself.

Then the other night Jeff and I were talking about how becoming a diamond could be problematic for those whose religions insist that the body will be taken up to heaven by Jesus on Judgment Day. And then the image struck us both at once--billions of glittering diamonds ascending to heaven in tremendous clouds and columns of twinkling lights. It made me wish for heaven when I don't believe.

I want to be a diamond.

Sending out an SOS

This is serious. I have procrastinated long enough on writing the story covering the annual meeting. It must get done today, or Edie will have my head, and I will be the biggest hypocrite on the face of the planet.

I don't know why I assign myself stories at all anymore. I always put them off until after what any reasonable person would call the last moment, leaving Edie in a bind, pursing her lips to keep herself from saying something tart to me because I do, after all, sign her timesheets and approve her days off. I'm taking unfair advantage of the system.

So how do I fight this kind of writer's block? This is just a straight story on what went on in Philly--I could even phone it in and copy and paste some standard language I used in last year's story. But there's a part of me that wants to take pride in even the most mundane hack writing I have to do, so I'm mentally pacing back and forth trying to think of ways to make this piece sparkle.

Any writers out there who can give me a clue how you handle this? Are you able to let go when you're not feeling inspired and just write--pound it out, make sure it's factually and grammatically correct, and then send it out into the world to fend for itself?

Who let the atheists in?

Fiona and I spent our evening at a talent show at a Baptist church. A friend of Fiona's from the school orchestra had begged her to play with her because she didn't want to play alone, so we found ourselves at a Baptist church in Howard County, wondering if our godlessness radiated from us like the fires of hell itself. We dressed primly and smiled as sweetly as we could.

We wound up having a wonderful time. These were really nice people. Granted, there wasn't a minority in the bunch, but they were mighty nice folks all the same. They were relaxed and friendly, and I have to say, they seemed full of the spirit they believed in. The talents acts were young, old, silly, impressive, or simply just for fun. The pastor played hymns on his harmonica. It didn't suck. A group of teenagers played Christian rock, and they were excellent. They didn't have a singer, so the "Christianness" of the song was blessedly lost. An old guy with a cane, so frail that his sons had to help him up on the stage, told jokes.

These people weren't self-conscious--they were fun. At one point when Fiona and her friend were playing their instruments and got lost, stopping, blushing, a woman behind me cried out, "That's okay! Keep going--you sound great!" and everyone applauded. I could have kissed her.

One lovely woman was telling me all about the church and how kind and friendly everyone there was, and she rounded it off by saying, "And we really love the Lord here." I had no idea what to say in return. What do you say? "I'm sure he loves you, too"? "You can't have Him, He's mine"? I think I muttered something inane like, "Good for you." I hope she didn't hear me.

Of course, we didn't tell them we were atheists. Besides the fact that Fiona and I both don't like to discuss religion, we didn't want to stop the show and have them all rush over to us to lay on the hands and try to save us. Seriously, we're not in any danger. And I question the usefulness of a lord who keeps getting lost so that his followers must continually hunt him down.

But religion or not, we had a great time. And I can't describe how refreshing it was to be in a place where everyone was friends with everyone else, and where no one cared if the acts were actually talented or not--they just wanted to celebrate their community. Kids around here are pushed and pushed until they're all tiny prodigies or commit early suicide, but at this particular church, they were just encouraged to have fun.

Buying a car

I had a feeling when Jeff woke up Monday morning that we would be buying a car that day. His trusty Saturn let him down Sunday when he was running late for a gig, and that was the last straw for the hapless vehicle. When I casually mentioned Monday morning that Labor Day was a good time to buy a car (what was I thinking?), Jeff's eyes lit up.

He ran outside and immediately began cleaning out the Saturn.

Should I be offended that it took him six weeks to decide to date me and dog knows how long to ask me to marry him from the moment the idea first flitted across his mind, but a simple "They have good deals on Labor Day" was all it took to get him to sign over big bucks for five years?

Jeff is a slow decision maker. Which makes me think that though he talked about seeing this relationship with the Saturn through to the bitter end, he'd already been eyeing other cars.

Fiona, of course, was totally psyched. She asked for a Rolls at first but seemed content enough to accompany us instead to the Toyota dealership. She was excited to sit in all the cars and ride around as Jeff and I drove several, taking in the new car smell and making faces at our driving skills. For the first hour or two, she was in heaven.

I remember loving car shopping, too, when I was a kid, but I have a feeling the process was a little simpler back then. We were a VW family, and the dealership sold only VWs. And I have no recollection of the actual purchasing process, so it can't have been the hours-long, paper-signing ordeal that we all went through Monday. Fiona patiently tried to entertain herself while we waited and signed, waited and signed.

Part of the agony of the process is, for me, the time that it takes. This time becomes longer each time I buy a car. Monday's excursion lasted about five hours--at one dealership only. Of course, we had to drive three different cars. And we had to listen to why each of them was an excellent choice for us. Each car was the best damn car ever made. Then we had to listen to the warranty manager tell us that the car we picked just might be the worst car ever made and how we'd better get all kinds of treatments and warranties and roadside assistance because that piece of shit was bound to break down, so we'd better cover our butts. We patiently withstood the subtle sneer when we refused this posterior protection and the warranty manager wrote on our application "No Adds." It might as well have been "Communists." "Kitty Torturers." "Fucking Cheapskates."

But now it's all over, and Jeff has a well-deserved, shiny red Toyota Corolla. And I'm a teeny bit jealous. I replaced my car in January and liked being the one with the pretty new car. Now it's passe, and I'm just a schlub in an 8-month-old Subaru.

I'm not going to draw any analogies between the way Jeff car shops and the way he shops for women. His woman-shopping days, after all, are over. But I wonder where I went wrong. Was my salesmanship sub-par? Was my lifetime warranty somehow insufficient? I don't know--perhaps he examined the report of past incidents.

Scapegoats

I've been doing some thinking about the excuses we make for not having what we want. I remember a woman I worked with years ago who drove me absolutely nuts--she was loud, rude, insensitive, and she even smelled a little. Occasionally she would complain that our company was full of anti-Semites because no one liked her there. I wanted to scream at the top of voice that being Jewish had nothing to do with the fact that she was unpopular, but that being a raging, whiny bitch had everything to do with it.

It was easier for her to blame it on something intrinsic about her that she couldn't change--even better that she chose something she could take some ethnic pride in. That intensified the injustice in her mind, I believe. It was easier because to address the real cause of everyone's dislike would be too personal, too painful, and too damn difficult. It would mean taking a hard look inside her soul and cleaning out all the gunk--the narrow-mindedness, the bitterness, the insecurity, the pettiness.

I used to think that no one would love a fat girl. I was certain of it, and it was for the very good reason that this message is drilled into the head of every American girl from at least the age of 10. And my personal experiences seemed to back it up. No boy ever looked at me until I lost the weight. I've never been thin, but I became slender enough to attract the attention of the average male adolescent.

And here's where my theory fell all to pieces: I was attracting the AVERAGE male. The kind of guy who was too insecure to take a chance on a girl his friends might laugh at him for dating; the kind who wasn't terribly interested in what I was interested in but who needed someone moderately attractive on his arm at parties. I dated some nice guys; I dated some nearly evil guys; I dated some losers.

What I needed, and was too stupid to understand, was a guy who could embrace my weirdness and silliness at the same time he could embrace a body that would go up and down in weight, attractiveness, and fitness. Someone who wouldn't run screaming if he knew the Real Me, whoever that was.

I never found it until I totally gave up trying. After a scary first marriage and a couple of years or therapy to untangle all the knots I'd tied in my head--or at least most of them--I was finally okay with who I was and too old and tired to have any time for someone who didn't like that. If I was going to put any effort into a relationship, that man was going to have to be worth my time. To put it simply, I set my standards impossibly high.

But it wasn't impossible. Surprise of surprises, I found it. There was someone out there who didn't see an older, dumpy suburban mom, but rather an intelligent, creative, sensual woman who could make him happy. (And yes, it is hard for me to describe myself that way, but I'm trying to see myself through his eyes.)

I didn't need a scapegoat. I didn't need weight or ethnicity or any number of other intrinsic qualities to explain why I hadn't found love. To find love, I had to make myself lovable. And to do that, I had to strip away all the pretenses, excuses, defenses, and prevarications that had always held me back. Jeff wouldn't, couldn't, have loved the girl who blamed her lack of romantic luck on her weight. But he could love the girl who decided, "Fuck 'em if they don't love this. This is lovable."