Remember when Rapture was just a Blondie song?

You know something is a big deal when it's satirized on The Simpsons. Anyone catch the one where Homer watches a movie called Left Below? Left Below is a take on the Left Behind book series, where Jesus comes back to Earth and takes all those who have been saved back to Heaven; the rest, are left behind (or below or beneath or under...prepositions are fun in a blog, on a blog, near a blog...). So, on The Simpsons, Homer gets totally sucked into doomsday theology and starts spreading the word that Jesus is a'comin' and you best be saved, lest you burn in Hell on Earth. He calculates the exact minute of the rapture using a complicated theorem and an abacus (we have one in the Planetarium; I'm still looking for a reason to use it) and he gathers everyone in Springfield on top of a mesa (where is Springfield?) to wait...and wait...and wait...but no one ever comes for them.

Eventually, everyone leaves, yadda yadda, Homer ends up by himself when, lo and behold, he is taken to Heaven. He gets to talk to God, and asks him why Jesus never came for him. God says something like, "You know, I sent my son down to Earth awhile back and he really hasn't been the same since..." -- cut to Jesus sadly twirling on a swing, staring at his feet. Poor Jesus.

I don't know why this scene slays me so or how I've been able to remember it so well in the year or two since it first aired. Can I remember how to properly wash a down comforter? No -- I had to call my mom every time I had to wash it in college (perhaps that's why I moved to Florida -- no need for a down comforter here). But two-year-old tv shows --man, I hang on to that junk.

It's definitely a sign, though, that something has made the mainstream when it's on The Simpsons. Does it terrify anyone that this 'something' is the Rapture? The idea that the end is nigh, that Jesus is watching and judging us, that He's coming to take the saved into the Kingdom of Heaven, leaving the rest of us to be crushed like the proverbial grapes of wrath is a little alarming to me. Perhaps that's why Evangelicals are so popular with the Bush administration: both keep their followers by instilling fear in them. What a great way to live.

I've been thinking about this rapturist theology, often, ever since I was lured into going to church with my born-again friend KW. She kind of tricked me. We were going to kayak afterward -- church is her Sunday thing, kayaking is mine. But she knew full well that the tide was going to be too low to kayak after church; she also knew that dangling a good paddling excursion in front of me would be the only way to get me to her church. Ah, those, tricky Christians.

We went to her church on Sanibel and I can safely say that I don’t remember the last time that I was that uncomfortable. Everyone seemed nice enough, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that here are all these rich island folks, all Republicans as KW bragged (yeah, she and I don’t have much in common), meeting and greeting and chatting about their recent mission trips, and you know, I doubt that they’ve ever set foot in east Fort Myers or Immokalee, two really poor, underserved communities in their own backyard.

Anyway, KW and I went to the “contemporary” service. Looking at the program, I secretly wished that we had gone to the traditional service – it had the standard pastoral call to worship with the congregation response. And actual hymns! And an organist! I love “Inna-gadda-da-vida”! The contemporary service, on the other hand, featured a bassist, a drummer, a tambourine/maraca/bongo player, and more lite pop God songs than you can shake a Jesus fish at.

For those not hip to the tunes of Christ, flat-screen TVs around the prayer hall displayed the lyrics on PowerPoint slides so you could follow along. Plenty of folks did sing along – proudly, loudly and with an outstretched hand doing that Christina Aguilera thing. Behind me, I noticed a Jimmy Buffett type, with his hands behind his back, smirking just as I was. He clearly was on vacation and was dragged to church by his lady, who, while clutching her own Bible, seemed to be bewildered by the 30 minutes of tambourine-shaking preceding any words from the ministry.

The words of the pastors definitely stirred up my faith; indeed, my faith in my non-church-going ways was definitely renewed. I’ve never been one for organized religion; I can have my own relationship with God without being told what to believe, how to act, who to vote for (which is, yeah, totally illegal; great way to lose your non-profit status). Within the first minute of the sermon, the music director told us that “President Bush was chosen by God to lead us. All of our leaders were chosen by God and we must follow them.” I wonder if they made the same assertion when Clinton was in office...

The pastor’s sermon was all about the “Keys to the Kingdom,” or getting ready for the second coming, which, by the way, you better be prepared for now because He can come any day now! Really, any minute! So, quit living in sin and drinking root beer out of bottles that look like beer bottles unless you want to spend eternity in Hell! That was his example of Key #10 (from Thessalonians 5:12-22), “Abstain from every form of evil.” When he mentioned the sin of the root beer bottle, the woman behind me loudly said “Amen”; KW informed me that our holy neighbor was a “real prayer warrior.” I just wanted to tell our neighbor to pick her battles.

To further illustrate ways to abstain from evil, the pastor imparted a story about a new young male music director at a church he used to work at. The man was fresh from college, and one of his friends from school, a female, came to visit him and see his new church. Now, they were just friends, the pastor reminded us, but she was, sin of all sins, female and staying at the young man’s house. Oh, dear god, a male and female sleeping in separate rooms? I am appalled. The pastor told his young music man that this arrangement was not appropriate, as much of the congregation had to drive past his house and might think that “something sinful was afoot” with the young man and his female friend. The young man agreed, and told his friend she could stay with the pastor. She apparently got pissed off and left because she “didn’t understand the need to protect the Kingdom of God.”

KW nodded in agreement to this story. Keep in mind that KW preaches to me constantly about my sexual habits, yet she is the one who lives with her boyfriend (she did say, "Oh, I better ask my boyfriend to move out soon before Jesus comes."). I firmly believe that her chain-smoking is going to kill her a lot faster than my premarital sex is going to kill me, but that is no matter. Here she is saying that a man and woman living together – even just for a few days in a platonic relationship -- is a condemnable act, and yet she is doing that very thing. I do not understand.

Other than those morsels of wisdom, the sermon also contained a horribly inappropriate joke about a woman repeatedly trying to close her door on some Christian solicitors; she was unable to fully shut her door until the Christians pointed out that she was slamming the door on her cat. Ha ha, non-Christians are so stupid and hurting animals is hilarious. The congregation loved this “joke.”

My Sunday morning ritual of late has been an early morning kayak and I can tell you I feel much closer to God when I’m on the water than when I was at that church. I would trick KW into joining me at my watery “church,” but I respect her right to worship however she pleases. At least my method of worship lets me get a tan and doesn’t pollute my mind with amateur lite pop muzak.

More importantly, though, I don't live in constant fear. Granted, a lot of these rapturists are pretty pumped about Doomsday ("What, we're going to war? Woo hoo! Apocalypse, here we come!"), but I think they're overly concerned with appearances. That's all that matters -- not the content of your character or your good deeds (like, uh, helping those less fortunate; I'm pretty sure that's what the welfare system and social security are for, but that is an entirely different post). It was so evident when the pastor said, in a serious tone, "I don't even drink root beer out of bottles that look like beer bottles because Jesus may not know that there's only soda inside." Geez, give Jesus some credit.

Turkey or no turkey – love the ones you’re with

I had a life-threatening ice cream craving last night. As I sat knitting on the couch, I thought, “Damn you, BPW, why did you not pick up some Ben & Jerry’s at Target the other day? Why, BPW, why???” You see, it really was such a serious craving that I swore at myself in the third person. Since yesterday was Thanksgiving, though, every store with a decent ice cream selection was closed, leaving me to stare sadly at the little Haagen-Dasz case at the gas station. “Well, any ice cream is good ice cream, right?” I thought.

After a few grainy, watery spoonfuls of vanilla almond, I realized I had made a horrible mistake.

As upsetting as my ice cream episode was, it didn’t really mar my non-traditional Turkey Day. Actually, I suppose I should refer to it as Udon-Noodles-with-Edamame-Carrots- and-Watercress Day, as that was my holiday meal. Although I was alone for the day, it wasn’t as depressing as my only other Thanksgiving by myself, back in 2001. One of the reasons that day sucked was that it was about a week before my 21st birthday, so I couldn’t even go out and binge drink by myself, let alone start hitting the bottle in the morning at home. Plus, it was cold and snowy. I have since discovered that I detest that sort of weather. How I lived in Montana for as long as I did, I’ll never know.

After my edamame meal yesterday, I headed down to the beach. It was sunny, dry, and 76 degrees – perfect, just as every Thanksgiving should be…maybe even a few degrees cooler than Thanksgiving should be.

I thought I would have the beach to myself since there was absolutely no traffic on the drive there and my usual parking lot was deserted. However, it seemed that a lot of people chose to spend the holiday away from home, filling the beach hotels. I don’t blame them – if I lived in Michigan or, god forbid, Minnesota, I certainly wouldn’t mind escaping to sunny Florida in late November. As I strolled through the “Times Square” area, I was very aware that I was amongst these strange folks of the dark frozen tundra, as I was overwhelmed with the coconuty aroma of sunblock, wafting off of them as they packed the restaurant patios. Real Floridians don’t need sunblock in November.

The lamely-named "Times Square" at Fort Myers Beach, where the scent of sunblock overpowers the aroma of food coming out of the restaurants that line the area.

Once I staked out my piece of beach, and settled down with my Al Franken book, I eavesdropped on a few families romping near me in the fine white sand. A few of the kids asked their parents when they were moving to Florida; most parents answered with a “when you find me a job in Florida.” One little boy was especially whiny and annoying; his dad said sternly, “If you keep acting like that, I’m just going to take you straight back to Rhode Island.”

The little boy bellowed, “No, not Rhode Island!”

When the sun had disappeared behind the clouds a few too many times, I packed up my things and shuffled over to my beach bar. Inside, I found a few big families – grandparents, grandkids, in-betweens, all on vacation – celebrating Thanksgiving with fajitas and margaritas. I really liked that: to them it was more important to spend the day together than it was to have any of that “traditional” stuff that one is supposed to have on Thanksgiving.

I haven’t spent Thanksgiving with my family since 1998 – not because I haven’t wanted to; I’ve just had a lot of logistical problems in the last seven years. It would be nice to spend the holiday with them before my sister goes off to college, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. I see them more now than when I was in college, when I saw them once, sometimes twice, a year. After that prolonged absence, we appreciate each other’s company so much more and always make the most of our time together. For example, we’re huge game-players and it’s not unheard of for my mom, my sister, and I to play multiple games of Scrabble after dinner, or to start the day with hot tea and a few hands of gin rummy. Sure, there are some expletives dropped here and there, since we’re all somewhat competitive, but our ‘go-to-hell’s are all in good fun.

Like I said earlier, I wasn’t as depressed yesterday as I expected to be. I guess it’s because I know I will see my family soon (Christmas)…the sweet weather didn’t hurt either.

I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving with lots of food and friends and family…and no crappy gas station ice cream.

Next he's going to say he's buying a butterfly farm

I ran into The Ex-boyfriend a few nights ago. I was chatting with The Devil, thinking about how much I do not enjoy his company, when I spotted The Ex across the way. So, like any good date, I jumped up, exclaimed "there's The Ex!" and ran away to go hang out with him.

The Ex just returned from Costa Rica. His 4-week stay became a 7-week stay, as I expected it would. I actually didn't think he would come back at all, but he figured that he should probably see his family in Wisconsin, where he hasn't visited in over five years. Plus, he owns a home here on the beach, so he had to come back eventually.

But his stay here will be a short one as he bought property in Costa Rica in Playa Zancudo and he's selling his house here to move there in January. Yep, the bastard is living my dream. The property he bought has 7 or 8 cabinas on it and a restaurant; the property also comes with a personal chef and a gardener. You can see his neighbors across the street here. Then you can come down to Fort Myers and watch me gag because this whole thing makes me sick.

Really, I am happy for him and not at all surprised that he's leaving the country again (he spent 4 years in southeast Asia). I would be happier if he didn't brag about the butterflies down there ("Remember the morphos we saw in Key West? In Zancudo, they're the size of your head!"). I would be happier, still, if I were going down there to live with him. I am going down in February, of course, and now that he has a place we can visit, our trip may actually begin to take shape. The Ex is fully aware that I am willing to trade sexual favors in exchange for a cabina.

[You didn't think I returned to The Devil, did you? No, no, The Devil left and text messaged me something about how much he hates The Ex. I went home with The Ex, like I always do when I run into him. Sucked in the morning, though, when I woke up and I all I could think about was how much I still love him. Then he had to go and be all boyfriendy and call me later to ask how my day was, chat about my trip, etc. What a jerk.]

In other news, I am not amused. Yes, I am referring to the hilarious Cone of Possibility (alternately: Funnel of Uncertainty, Wedge of Ambiguity) posted on the National Hurricane Center website. I know it's still a long way off and that it could very well miss the entire peninsula, but the very idea that a hurricane -- a hurricane named after a letter in the Greek alphabet because we're out of names, no less -- could threaten us at Thanksgiving greatly disturbs me. Granted, people in more sensible locales have to worry about ice and snow at Thanksgiving, but I live in Florida and this is supposedly dry season. That means NO HURRICANES. I don't want to deal with a storm during snowbird season. The damn Yankees kvetch so much anyway ("Why does it take so long to get everywhere? How do you people deal with this traffic? Why do we have to wait so long to get a table at a restaurant?" Uh, because you and your snowbird ilk are all here at the same time. Fort Myers is actually quite pleasant the rest of the year), I can't imagine the pandemonium that would ensue should they be without power for more than a few hours. It's enough to make you say "oy."

Anyway, check out the Playa Zancudo pictures -- especially the black sand beaches. You can still join our trip! You won't have to perform any sexual favors for anyone to go with us!

They's my magic shoes

I have been splintless for the last few days – not so much because my foot feels normal again, but because my splint got really gross. The Velcro on the sole of the splint had collected an assortment of items from the outdoors – pine needles, leaves, small twigs, squirrels – and from the indoors – cat hair, rabbit hair, BPW hair (thank god Foxy doesn’t shed). Plus, the thing had been on my foot for a couple of weeks, and that’s just nasty.

Anyway, I think I’ve discovered the source of my unexplained pep this week. Since relegating my splint to the Corner of Useless Things in my bedroom, I’ve been wearing sneakers (tennies? Trainers? Running shoes? What does one call them?). I thought tying something tight around my foot would help immobilize it and make it easier for me to get around. As it turned out, applying a great deal of pressure to my injury doesn’t feel too hot. Still, the sneakers keep my toes warm in my sub-zero office.

Back to my pep: wearing sneakers makes me bouncier, a bounciness which, previously, I could only achieve by going braless. When I wear my sneakers, I sporadically feel the urge to toss my leg up on the admin desk to stretch my hamstring (or quadriceps? What do I know about physiology?), like I’m getting ready for some big race to the Planetarium. Or sometimes I’ll just kick out a Rockette high kick, to prove to myself that I can still do it. Not that I used to be a Rockette – I think I’m 8 inches too short – I just used to be extremely flexible at one point in time.

These urges never surface when I’m wearing other footwear; there’s just something in that cushioned footbed that transforms me into a professional cheerleader grapevining across an Astroturf field (not the kind of professional cheerleader who has sex in bathroom stalls, though; I believe I would need an entirely different pair of shoes to feel like her).

The biggest downside to my sneakers is that they’re a bit trickier to clean up than my usual work shoes, my beloved – and broken – Chaco sandals. When the giant toad pees on my feet, I can just go stick my sandaled feet under some running water and be done with it. Our giant toad, by the way, is quite a sight; he’s the size of a dinner plate and so unattractive that he’s gone back to being cute. I know I shouldn’t say this, but he’s my favorite animal. Shh, don’t tell the others.

Anyway, if the toad pees on my sneakered feet, yes, my feet are protected from the actual urine, but then I’ve got a bigger mess to clean up. I can’t just hose off my shoes because then I’ll have to wear soaking wet sneakers all day, and that’s far worse than my shoes smelling like toad piss for a short period of time.

So, there you have it: my sneakers make me peppy, and at times, pissy.

Too Much Information, Vol. IV: Something Blue

I woke up this morning and, for no apparent reason, I was giddy. I haven't said that I've been giddy for at least two years -- not because I haven't been chipper in awhile, but because two years ago I had an intern named Giddy. So, when I'd say, "Whee! I'm giddy!", he'd say in a serious tone, "No, I'm Giddy." I kid you not, friends.

Anyway, all day at work, I gleefully leapt out of my chair whenever anyone called my name, whereas usually, I pull my blanket over my ears and pretend not to hear anyone outside my office. Wondering about the blanket? The office is kept much too cold for my taste, so I sit at my desk wrapped in my gray fleece blankie. What I really need are fingerless gloves to keep my hands warm when I type, but that is neither here nor there -- my point is that I was inexplicably, downright happy. I am not accustomed to this emotion, so I don't know whether to point my gloveless finger at this morning's reacquantaince with my painkillers or at the fact that I didn't start my morning by stepping in cat vomit as the cause of my exuberance. It seems that my elation, like the reason for the Nicole Richie-Paris Hilton spat, shall remain a mystery.

My suspsicious energy level reminds me of the Traveling Man I alluded to at the end of my last post. In my various encounters with him, he, too, had an almost alarming amount of pep. I met TM two months ago, when he just jumped into a conversation I was having with K one night when we were out. He's a funny, charming, outgoing guy, perfectly suited to his career in fundraising. He's based out of Fort Lauderdale, but his job sends him all over Florida, including my corner of the Sunshine State on a fairly regular business.

Now, before I go on, I would like to remind you that this is a TMI post; previous volumes have given you insight into my feelings about earwax, my choice of birth control, and my battles with armpit odor. This post will be no different -- it will contain perhaps a bit more than you want to know about me, a complete stranger. In fact, in this one I do what my precious butterflies do all of the time -- I have sex. If the thought of me having sex particularly revolts you, then turn away now (though I might point out that you have never even seen me, so you really are not qualified to make that decision).

Still here? Damn, what kind of perv are you? I jest, I jest.

So, Traveling Man and I hit it off that night; several hours later we were hitting other things in his hotel room (you like that lame euphemism for sex? Anything for you, loyal reader). I gave him a (booty) call a few nights later, but I just got his voicemail. At that point, I wrote him off as just a one-night stand. Oh well.

But then Traveling Man surprised me a month later and text messaged me (thank you, modern technology!) while killing time at the Orlando airport. I thought it was an accidental text, intended for someone else (screw you, modern technology!), but it turned out that he wanted to let me know that he'd be back in town soon (I take back everything I said about you, modern technology).

After some initial hurdles involving my lack of cell signal at home (I seem to live in a cave 12 feet underground), we finally got together late at night at the beach a couple of weeks ago. With two of his friends from work in tow, we made our way down to the water where he promptly stripped down to his cute black undies (if they were on a girl, you'd call them "boy shorts"; I don't know what you'd call them on an actual boy) and dove in the water. I was kind of "eh" about getting in the water, mostly because I was totally sober and I tend to give greater consideration to the consequences of my actions when I'm in that unfortunate state. I didn't have long to hem and haw, though, before he picked me up and carried me out to sea with him where we got down to business. Ah, the good times. It was my first time in saltwater, and it may well be my last; freshwater is one thing, when it washes away natural lubricants, but saltwater...is drying and stings. The salt did me no favors, but still a good time was had by all. And by "all" I mean TM and I; his two work people were somewhere up on the beach and not involved with our wave-making. Perhaps they were rooting us on, I don't know.

Once we got back to his hotel room and got some dry clothes on, we promptly took them off. What transpired over the next few hours was nothing short of impressive, to say the least. At one point, we discussed how incredibly awesome we were together, and that's when I thought to myself, "Wow, he's like the male version of me, complete with inflated sense of self."

However, after a few hours, I did look down at him and ask,"How are you still doing this?" I mean, we had been going strong for a long time and at no point was anything ever...flaccid. All the rolling around in bed had been going on for so long that not only was I tired and sore, but also a little apprehensive -- as in,"Sweet Jesus, did I find the Bionic Man? What the hell is going on here?"



The next day I told a friend about the experience and before I could even get to the Bionic Man part, she interrupted and said,"Oh, he's totally taking Viagra. Young guys do that, you know -- take it as a party drug."

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that what happened with TM was very unusual. Now, I don't want to say that I've slept with a lot of guys (what's "a lot" anyway? 10? 50?), but I've slept with enough to know what's normal and...what's freakish.

Now, why any young guy without any erectile dysfunction would want to get all hopped up on Viagra is beyond me. Maybe the two male readers of this blog can field that one -- is it like souping up your car? I don't understand. All I know is that the perma-hard-on started to stress me out after awhile.

But not enough to keep me from TM. He was supposed to be here tonight, but was called back to the east coast for a real estate thing. He called me from Alligator Alley and, for the first time, we talked...and learned things about each other. Tonight was definitely the longest conversation we've ever had (I believe it clocked in at around 13 minutes), and it was nice. He's supposed to be back here next week. Maybe I'll get some time to snoop around his toiletry bag and find out whether a little something blue is giving him an extra boost.

New intern earns her keep; I make out with The Devil

Halloween 2005 was super fantastic. My little sister turned 16; I didn't have to work on the quasi-holiday for the first time since college; our new intern wore the best costume ever to our fundraising event; and I made out with the devil and still have the red paint on my fingernails (and purse...and shirt...) to prove it.

That's the new intern on the right. Not only did she hold the skunk/tub-o'-lard for four hours on Saturday and then again on Sunday, but she held Fatty McFatAss while wearing a heavy shower costume of her own design. My favorite part of the costume -- aside from the blue and silver eyelashes and rubber ducky flip flops -- was the holster she wore around her waist to hold up her shower. Brilliant. Costumes like this one are the reason I don't get dressed up for Halloween -- I can't think of anything so freaking clever!

I had my run-in with The Devil Halloween night while hanging out at the beach with K. The Devil works at the bar where I spend what some would say is a bit too much time (it's the place where I met The Ex-Boyfriend and where The Ringed One works; I really wish it were a bookstore, really I do, but it's the only place where I've met nice people here). K and I were leaning against a wall, watching Soapy Tuna play, sipping our Amstel Lights, probably making snide remarks about something because that's what we do, when a bald dude with a scary mask, red make-up, and a red velvet ensemble walked by and kissed me. With tongue. Then he walked away, leaving me to say, "What the fuck just happened?" and K to say, "You need to wash your face. Right now, Rudolph."

As soon as I got my face back to normal, The Devil returned for more kisses. I obliged because, well, I like kisses. I have checked him out for a wedding ring before and he has killer dimples (I have a HUGE dimple weakness; if we ever meet and you have dimples, I highly suggest filling them in with putty beforehand so I won't be tempted to -- oh, I don't know -- lick your face) (unless you're into that). Anyway, though I have looked at him before, he's the one person I've never talked to at the bar, so all this kissing was surprising.

We did talk at one point and exchange important things like phone numbers and names. He was a bit dweebier than I expected. He's this bald, tattooed, pierced burly guy who sometimes works as a bouncer, and I found myself smiling to myself and saying, "He's kind of a dork." It was endearing, of course. Even more endearing? He asked what I've been reading (that's my M.O. -- I bring books to bars and read. Hey, the library doesn't sell beer). I told him On Being John McEnroe, and he acted like he knew it (maybe he did) and told me how much he loves books. Going after my heart, how sweet.

I was kind of hoping this thing would pass, though, for two reasons:

1. I feel like I've hit my limit of guys I can get involved with from that bar.
2. There's only one kind of relationship I can deal with right now and it's not one with feelings...or names.

But when I went down to the bar last night for dinner (I don't care if there is an Ex-Boyfriends of BPW Convention (EBBCon) going on there; they have 99 cent tacos on Wednesday nights and Dos Equis for $1.30), he came up behind me and kissed me like ... a boyfriend. Why, oh why, could this not have been a drunk Halloween thing where he doesn't want to spend time with me and ... talk?

I'm going to give it a chance, I think, as long as it doesn't interfere with my NSA relationship with this dude from the east coast who comes here for business every few weeks; I'm not quite willing to give that one up yet (this is Traveling Man's first appearance here; he'll be getting his very own TMI post sometime soon). But I don't think there's a good way to say, "Okay, we'll date but it's not exclusive for me. For you it is." I have jealousy issues, but no hypocrisy issues.

I'm so envious of my married/committed friends because, you know, I'm sure their relationships aren't any work at all and are never stressful. :) At least they don't have to do this dating crap.

PS-Does rayon need to be dry-cleaned?

PPS-The answer to the Dirty Dancing quiz on Lepidoptera Lady has been revealed. It's been keeping you up at night, right?