I went to WalMart yesterday.
For those who know me... I made every effort NOT to shop at WalMart and was successful for almost 8 years of boycotting the evil giant.
To give some history, I shopped there regularly - no, MORE than regularly - when my kids were little. It meant one place for everything from gardening supplies to home furnishings to diapers to produce... and when I had two toddlers to wrangle, accomplishing all of my errands in one location was invaluable.
In my mid to late twenties, however, I started to become a little more politically and economically aware... and found that I had some big issues with WalMart's business practices. Everything from how they treat their employees to the quality of their merchandise came under my scrutiny and I decided that I would simply take my money elsewhere.
By this time, my kids were older and no longer a pain-in-the-ass to shop with - and a boycott of WalMart really only meant that I'd be shopping at Target, so no big deal, right?
Fast forward to the latter part of last year... I was doing a show and broke my 'show bra'.
For civilians (or men) that might not understand what that is: Unless one is costumed in a corset (or naked) it is necessary for a woman to invest in a heavy-duty bra that will keep 'the girls' in line whilst bending and twisting onstage in front of hundreds of strangers. This becomes even more necessary if one is doing a musical. (Anyone that has more than a C-cup will most assuredly lack breath control after dancing around 'unbound' for two minutes. A flimsy bra will turn 'the pony' into your worst enemy!) Some bras will have to be cut, modified, re-sewn... and sometimes even sewn or tacked into costumes to restrict movement even further. Losing one's 'show bra' is akin to Brett Farrvrvre losing his cup right before the Superbowl game. Totes no bueno.
I had work the next day, the kids had school... there was going to be no time to shop for a new show bra before the next show. And as I pondered my dilemma, my daughter texted me that she needed a plain T-shirt to decorate for her dance class - by the next morning!!
And so I found myself breaking my 7+-year boycott to enter a 24-hour WalMart in the hopes of finding a suitable 'show bra' and a plain white T-shirt in the middle of a Wednesday night.
I remember feeling slightly embarrassed as I usually do when I'm out in public but still in my 'show makeup'; which (due to the recent characters I've played) means a vat of foundation, fake lashes, and some obnoxious color of eyeshadow or dubious amounts of glitter. But when I walked into the almost-deserted WalMart at ten after midnight on a weekday, no one even gave me a second-glance.
I bought a show bra, a T-shirt and a tube of lipstick for under $20.00 total.
And therein lies the second problem, ladies and gentlemen. You'll notice I only needed two items, but I left with three. That is the sinister evil of WalMart, people. And it starts small... you'll never even notice.
I went back to the WalMart a few more times... still tentative... but unable to resist the rolled back prices and the yellow happy faces encouraging me to purchase even MORE crap I don't need. That was it. Boycott broken, the money-sucking conglomerate had seduced me back into its retail-therapy-lovin' arms.
I did a majority of my Christmas shopping there last year. I was a responsible consumer, doing research and price comparisons online. It was no matter. WalMart was always there... proclaiming itself victorious in search after search as if to say, "Who's mah bargain bitch now?!"
I am, WalMart. I am.
I went there with my daughter yesterday for some non-grocery household items as well as our weekly supply of foodstuffs.
I spent an OBSCENE amount of money and got no fewer than 7 items that weren't on my list. That's how indoctrinated I've become to the ways of the 'Mart. It's uncanny. And it all happened so fast. A year ago, I was fine! I was happy paying a little more elsewhere or driving to three different locations to save a few bucks on consumables and other randoms that I needed. I didn't need the WalMart! I hated it!
The 'me' from last year would totally be kicking the current 'me's ass right now.
To top it all off, I... err... we... err... I'm not sure exactly what happened... One of the employees, a young black man that was probably all of 28 (if that), regarded my daughter and I as sisters (which sometimes happens) and I dismissed it as bad eyesight (he was at the far end of the aisle we were in). As he got closer, he tried to continue conversation about my age, guessing me at 26 - to which I rolled my eyes, gave him my most patronizing 'mom' look, and continued on with some kind of sarcastic retort about appreciating the effort - he parted with a "Well, you look good!"
(Keeping in mind that I was wearing faded, dirty capri pants and a tank top without the slightest bit of makeup on my face and my hair was in its requisite "don't-give-a-crap" ponytail... not to mention that I'm so much closer to 40 than 20 that I can taste it with the bitter tip of my tongue.)
I turned to my daughter (who is now giggling) and she blurts, "OMG, mom you just got hit on."
I decide that this can be one of those 'teachable moments' that I'm always talking about and try to think of some wisdom to impart.
Before my brain can decide on the appropriate response, however, my mouth blurts out,
"It's the Watson ass."
Oh, WalMart... how you encourage and instill class and grace and elegance.
It ended up being a teachable moment anyway, as my daughter and I agreed that you really can find ANYTHING at the WalMart. Including young, good-lookin' black boys, apparently.
And so it is that I awoke today with a slight shame-hangover akin to 'buyer's remorse' or the embarrassment of recalling what you did the night before in a drunken stupor... and entered the amount I spent into my checking register.
My contrition, however genuine, is only temporary. I know that I will again be sucked into the sinister walls of the unabashed spenders. It only hurts because WalMart knows me so well.
Just when I think I can break the spell... they send an agent of psychological infiltration to flatter and cajole me. They are sneaky, underhanded bastards.
I think I need a shower.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
My Two Dads
Having no biological sisters, I started 'adopting' my best friends as sisters from about the 3rd grade forward. (Nowadays, I seem to adopt only 'little sisters' as I'm actually closer in age to their parents, but that's another story for another day.) As a result of these declared familial bonds, I also inherited a few extra parents here and there.
The Harkenriders, The Chamberlains, The Mellos, The Westerbergs, The Davis', The Marshaks, The Halls, and The Powells. All sets of parents that advised, educated, disciplined, fed, entertained and/or moved me in some way.
As I grew more rebellious against authority figures, most parents seemed like sticks-in-the-mud (of course) and were a second-thought to my selfish teenage desires. It wasn't until I was in a situation way over my head that I realized I needed them all more than I could ever know.
I had broken some big rules and burned bridges with my own parents when I ended up renting one room in a two-bedroom apartment with the young mother of an 11-month-old (who's 'baby daddy' was in prison) who was living on unemployment and food stamps.
I had just started working at AT&T and was in training every day from 6am-2:30pm. They had a strict attendance policy that wasn't going to be dictated by my morning sickness, so I had to be up in time to puke and shower before hitching the bus that took me to work two miles down the road.
I would often return to the apartment in disarray and my roommate gone, so I would clean up out of boredom. It wasn't always easy as I didn't have the strongest constitution to deal with dirty diapers, bathroom sink/drain Yeti-clogs, and dishes that were left sitting with milk to spoil or beans to dry, crack and adhere to their ceramic bowl. It was after cleaning such putrid elements that my roommate returned and snapped at me for "dumping her baby's lunch". Spoiled milk and day-old beans. The lunch of an 11-month-old. I was only 18, but even I knew that wasn't right. She 'made-do' with beans from a can and beer. Yes. Beer.
I had been in that apartment for two weeks when I received my first paycheck and managed to do some grocery shopping... only to arrive home days later to find that most of my groceries had been consumed by my roommate - who explained that she was still waiting for her food stamps and would replenish the supply in a few days.
I ate an entire watermelon for dinner that night.
It was all that was left.
After doing so I had a minor emotional breakdown and called my best friend, Amanda, to vent.
Incidentally, the roommate did not have good enough credit to qualify for a phone line in the apartment - and I, being fresh out of High School, would have been required to put down a deposit of a coupla hundred bucks to have one installed in my name - which I wasn't in a position to do. So, I had to walk across the parking lot to the CircleK and use the pay phone to call someone. If someone wanted to reach me... well... tough, I guess... but with very few exceptions, I couldn't think of anyone who would want to reach me.
I remember there was always something spilled or discarded that attracted a gazillion ants to those pay phones, but the next closest one was a block away and it was hot outside.
Amanda came over to be my shoulder to vent and cry on (and spent most of the time disapproving of my current living situation) and left after eliciting my promise to call her the next day.
I don't remember if it was the same night I called her or the night following, but she had gone home and appealed to her parents and then informed me that her dad would be bringing a truck to pack up my shit and move it out of the apartment and into their house.
I don't remember much... only that it happened with lightening speed. Her father carried load after load of clothes, my mattress, and the few possessions I had with me without a word. Amanda and I squeezed into the cab beside him. We drove silently for a few miles and I was almost sure that Papa Powell was crying. He later explained that he was angry and heartbroken about what had led to the conditions I was living in and didn't know how I could have destroyed my relationship with parents so irrevocably to have ended up away from my family. It was something that I didn't quite understand myself and so we speculated and commiserated together as a father and daughter would about choices and consequence.
We drove to my mom's house where she had agreed to store some of my large items temporarily. I think I ended up bringing three boxes to Amanda's house... most of them clothes that would only fit me for the next month or so.
I spent that summer living with the Powell's. Amanda, her dad, and a fellah from my training class took turns giving me rides to work (which was now considerably further away) at god-awful hours of the morning. They fed me, they encouraged me, and they loved me.
Papa Powell was a musician and had converted his garage into a recording studio. My father, also being a musician, had recorded some of my favorite musical theatre tracks with his own arrangements while I was in Junior High. Together, my two dads were responsible for the first time I ever recorded in a studio and had a chance to play creatively. I remember Amanda picking up harmonies and the two of us riffing and making up parody lyrics, playing with character voices and mimicry.
I think I was 13 or 14 when we recorded 'Music of the Night'. I remember how much time Papa Powell spent playing with levels and reverb and a ton of other elements I didn't understand - until what was left was something altogether magical and amazing.
I remember singing with his band and being denied entrance to a bar (at the age of 16) only to hear, "It's okay, she's with us." I sang my heart out that night... as a special guest of the band... to a raucous crowd of adults who were so supportive and encouraging that it only solidified how much I wanted to entertain people. At the time, I was pretty sure my folks would have a coronary if they knew I was out singing for the drunks on that Friday night... and Papa Powell didn't offer another barroom gig after that... but that one experience was enough to build the confidence that I had some marketable talent.
Those weren't the only milestones shared with my second dad.
He was there the first time I ever felt my son flutter in my belly - on a hot summer day in AZ, while laying on his couch, reading a book and drinking iced tea.
At the end of the summer of '93, I had saved up enough money for the deposit on an apartment within walking distance of my workplace. We loaded up my stuff from mom's garage and Amanda's bedroom and Papa Powell helped me move in to my first ever 'very own' apartment.
Before moving out, however, Papa Powell and I shared a moment in the living room of the house where he offered some advice and made me promise him something. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, 'No matter what happens, don't stop performing. Don't let marriage or children or your work or living situation prevent you from being the artist that you are. Let them improve it.' He told me that I had a gift and that he believed in me.
It was a time in my life when I felt that very few people believed in me and he forever impacted who I would become as a person and as an artist.
His life took a few unexpected turns that included a divorce, another failed marriage, alcoholism and ultimately homelessness.
I'm relieved and thankful that I didn't know him for those years. My big sister spared me many of the details, but kept me involved in his progress and/or deterioration...
He was attempting to rehabilitate himself, going to AA, and was living in a motel... still an unstable and unhealthy lifestyle for the fragile man I imagined him to be at this point... but a potential step in the right direction. So much potential. I had faith that I would see him again in better times.
Papa Powell passed away July 2nd.
He made some decisions that I believe drastically shortened his life. Especially in the last several years. He was a beautiful man and a brilliant musician. A fragile and vulnerable human being who was going through a lot of pain in the last several years of his life.
He broke many hearts. His wife, his daughter, the grandkids that he will never know - and who will never fully understand what an amazing man their grandpa was.
He will always be the dad who rescued me.
The one who held me while I cried about being alone and scared and confused.
The one who walked around the house humming whichever random tune or riff was in his head.
He was quick with a joke or to light up your smoke...
He was the one who graciously allowed Amanda and I to test out our rudimentary cooking skills... and smiled through it even when dinner was lousy.
The one who walked in the door scowling, but whose eyes would light up when he saw his 'daughters' dancing and singing along with RHPS or going through sheet music.
He was the one who believed in me when I had given everyone around me every reason not to.
I hate that I was not equipped to rescue him the way that he rescued me. I also acknowledge that alcoholism and pregnancy are two vastly different diseases - though perhaps the motivating choices stemmed from the same desire to escape... but I digress.
I love Papa Powell.
I will grieve for him in my own way; rediscovering memories long forgotten and determining how best to continue the legacy of music, creativity and acceptance that he left in the heart and soul of the artist and person that I long to be.
Rest in peace, Papa.
...and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
The Harkenriders, The Chamberlains, The Mellos, The Westerbergs, The Davis', The Marshaks, The Halls, and The Powells. All sets of parents that advised, educated, disciplined, fed, entertained and/or moved me in some way.
As I grew more rebellious against authority figures, most parents seemed like sticks-in-the-mud (of course) and were a second-thought to my selfish teenage desires. It wasn't until I was in a situation way over my head that I realized I needed them all more than I could ever know.
I had broken some big rules and burned bridges with my own parents when I ended up renting one room in a two-bedroom apartment with the young mother of an 11-month-old (who's 'baby daddy' was in prison) who was living on unemployment and food stamps.
I had just started working at AT&T and was in training every day from 6am-2:30pm. They had a strict attendance policy that wasn't going to be dictated by my morning sickness, so I had to be up in time to puke and shower before hitching the bus that took me to work two miles down the road.
I would often return to the apartment in disarray and my roommate gone, so I would clean up out of boredom. It wasn't always easy as I didn't have the strongest constitution to deal with dirty diapers, bathroom sink/drain Yeti-clogs, and dishes that were left sitting with milk to spoil or beans to dry, crack and adhere to their ceramic bowl. It was after cleaning such putrid elements that my roommate returned and snapped at me for "dumping her baby's lunch". Spoiled milk and day-old beans. The lunch of an 11-month-old. I was only 18, but even I knew that wasn't right. She 'made-do' with beans from a can and beer. Yes. Beer.
I had been in that apartment for two weeks when I received my first paycheck and managed to do some grocery shopping... only to arrive home days later to find that most of my groceries had been consumed by my roommate - who explained that she was still waiting for her food stamps and would replenish the supply in a few days.
I ate an entire watermelon for dinner that night.
It was all that was left.
After doing so I had a minor emotional breakdown and called my best friend, Amanda, to vent.
Incidentally, the roommate did not have good enough credit to qualify for a phone line in the apartment - and I, being fresh out of High School, would have been required to put down a deposit of a coupla hundred bucks to have one installed in my name - which I wasn't in a position to do. So, I had to walk across the parking lot to the CircleK and use the pay phone to call someone. If someone wanted to reach me... well... tough, I guess... but with very few exceptions, I couldn't think of anyone who would want to reach me.
I remember there was always something spilled or discarded that attracted a gazillion ants to those pay phones, but the next closest one was a block away and it was hot outside.
Amanda came over to be my shoulder to vent and cry on (and spent most of the time disapproving of my current living situation) and left after eliciting my promise to call her the next day.
I don't remember if it was the same night I called her or the night following, but she had gone home and appealed to her parents and then informed me that her dad would be bringing a truck to pack up my shit and move it out of the apartment and into their house.
I don't remember much... only that it happened with lightening speed. Her father carried load after load of clothes, my mattress, and the few possessions I had with me without a word. Amanda and I squeezed into the cab beside him. We drove silently for a few miles and I was almost sure that Papa Powell was crying. He later explained that he was angry and heartbroken about what had led to the conditions I was living in and didn't know how I could have destroyed my relationship with parents so irrevocably to have ended up away from my family. It was something that I didn't quite understand myself and so we speculated and commiserated together as a father and daughter would about choices and consequence.
We drove to my mom's house where she had agreed to store some of my large items temporarily. I think I ended up bringing three boxes to Amanda's house... most of them clothes that would only fit me for the next month or so.
I spent that summer living with the Powell's. Amanda, her dad, and a fellah from my training class took turns giving me rides to work (which was now considerably further away) at god-awful hours of the morning. They fed me, they encouraged me, and they loved me.
Papa Powell was a musician and had converted his garage into a recording studio. My father, also being a musician, had recorded some of my favorite musical theatre tracks with his own arrangements while I was in Junior High. Together, my two dads were responsible for the first time I ever recorded in a studio and had a chance to play creatively. I remember Amanda picking up harmonies and the two of us riffing and making up parody lyrics, playing with character voices and mimicry.
I think I was 13 or 14 when we recorded 'Music of the Night'. I remember how much time Papa Powell spent playing with levels and reverb and a ton of other elements I didn't understand - until what was left was something altogether magical and amazing.
I remember singing with his band and being denied entrance to a bar (at the age of 16) only to hear, "It's okay, she's with us." I sang my heart out that night... as a special guest of the band... to a raucous crowd of adults who were so supportive and encouraging that it only solidified how much I wanted to entertain people. At the time, I was pretty sure my folks would have a coronary if they knew I was out singing for the drunks on that Friday night... and Papa Powell didn't offer another barroom gig after that... but that one experience was enough to build the confidence that I had some marketable talent.
Those weren't the only milestones shared with my second dad.
He was there the first time I ever felt my son flutter in my belly - on a hot summer day in AZ, while laying on his couch, reading a book and drinking iced tea.
At the end of the summer of '93, I had saved up enough money for the deposit on an apartment within walking distance of my workplace. We loaded up my stuff from mom's garage and Amanda's bedroom and Papa Powell helped me move in to my first ever 'very own' apartment.
Before moving out, however, Papa Powell and I shared a moment in the living room of the house where he offered some advice and made me promise him something. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, 'No matter what happens, don't stop performing. Don't let marriage or children or your work or living situation prevent you from being the artist that you are. Let them improve it.' He told me that I had a gift and that he believed in me.
It was a time in my life when I felt that very few people believed in me and he forever impacted who I would become as a person and as an artist.
His life took a few unexpected turns that included a divorce, another failed marriage, alcoholism and ultimately homelessness.
I'm relieved and thankful that I didn't know him for those years. My big sister spared me many of the details, but kept me involved in his progress and/or deterioration...
He was attempting to rehabilitate himself, going to AA, and was living in a motel... still an unstable and unhealthy lifestyle for the fragile man I imagined him to be at this point... but a potential step in the right direction. So much potential. I had faith that I would see him again in better times.
Papa Powell passed away July 2nd.
He made some decisions that I believe drastically shortened his life. Especially in the last several years. He was a beautiful man and a brilliant musician. A fragile and vulnerable human being who was going through a lot of pain in the last several years of his life.
He broke many hearts. His wife, his daughter, the grandkids that he will never know - and who will never fully understand what an amazing man their grandpa was.
He will always be the dad who rescued me.
The one who held me while I cried about being alone and scared and confused.
The one who walked around the house humming whichever random tune or riff was in his head.
He was quick with a joke or to light up your smoke...
He was the one who graciously allowed Amanda and I to test out our rudimentary cooking skills... and smiled through it even when dinner was lousy.
The one who walked in the door scowling, but whose eyes would light up when he saw his 'daughters' dancing and singing along with RHPS or going through sheet music.
He was the one who believed in me when I had given everyone around me every reason not to.
I hate that I was not equipped to rescue him the way that he rescued me. I also acknowledge that alcoholism and pregnancy are two vastly different diseases - though perhaps the motivating choices stemmed from the same desire to escape... but I digress.
I love Papa Powell.
I will grieve for him in my own way; rediscovering memories long forgotten and determining how best to continue the legacy of music, creativity and acceptance that he left in the heart and soul of the artist and person that I long to be.
Rest in peace, Papa.
...and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
No Souliciting!
I don't get along well with missionaries. While I believe they may be good people at heart and while I also believe that they are doing very important work, they typically make me feel uncomfortable. And I HATE feeling uncomfortable in my home, my sanctuary.
Well gee, Andi... have you stopped to analyze this?
Yeah, I have, smarty-pants. And I'm still going to be opinionated about it.
Some of you may know this, but for those that don't, a little background:
I was very involved in my church throughout all of my youth. Not only did my family go to church religiously (pun intended), but we were involved in the church choir, the youth groups, my parents were counselors, my uncle was the youth pastor for a short time, etc, etc. We didn't just go to church on Sunday morning. We went Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and often other days between. I was a 'sidewalk evangelist' which is another name for a door-to-door missionary... I was a tool for God... a fisher of men... I just got a little sidetracked on the kind of man-fishing I was supposed to be doing, I suppose, but I digress...
I have nothing to discuss with missionaries. I used to entertain long religious debates, having memorized a good deal of scripture in my youth, but those debates lost their luster as I became a bit more set in my ways and intolerant of 19-year-old kids trying to give me advice.
See, that's the thing... I never like hurting people's feelings and I don't ever want these people to feel rejected themselves because I'm rejecting their religion. It's silly, I know... but I'm a people-pleaser and I think about stupid stuff like that. As I get older, however, I've grown more impatient with those that 'invade my space' uninvited or unannounced.
My old house was in a neighborhood that was regularly canvassed by Mormons at dinnertime. It was probably the third or fourth time I had answered the door with an oven-mitt on one hand, random utensil in the other, TV blaring in the background, phone ringing... that I directed them to the 'no soliciting' sign and told them that it included soliciting sprinkler, sound, alarm, and belief systems. They didn't come back.
And so it was that I moved into my new house and was returning after running some errands to find two men at my front door talking to my 17-year-old son.
Now, there were a couple things wrong with the picture right off the bat...
First, I do have a 'no soliciting' sign right by the front door.
I have decided that 'soliciting' is the LEAST known word in the English language. 95% of the time I point to that sign, I am met with a confused look as if to say, "Well I don't know what that means, but I assure you it does not apply to me!"
The second thing wrong with this picture was that my son was standing there with the door open... security screen still locked firmly between him and his guests. It was 112 degrees outside... and at the point that I walked in, it was about 90 degrees in the house. Grrrrr.
There was an uncomfortable energy in the air. I couldn't identify it... but it was that feeling when you walk into your home and automatically know something is "off". Those are the times I immediately start looking for signs of something broken or spilled or otherwise 'out of whack'. In this case, it was just an odd, oppressive energy.
I figured that hollering "Dinner's Ready!" would be a good 'hint' to our guests that it was time to wrap it up without butting into their conversation and being rude. I have yet to hear a peep from my son - he's merely listening. I catch his eye, and realize he may need assistance in being assertive with the fellah who is just still talking - and apparently not about to be interrupted.
So, I quietly stepped out the side door to get face-to-face with the interlopers.
As I approached, I realized that they were not Mormon missionaries as I first assumed.
Although they wore similar garb, one of the fellahs had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal full sleeves of intricate tattoo work. His companion looked like an Amish guy (3/4 scale, cuz he was really short) who had borrowed his dad's suit jacket.
Then I realize that they're not reading from the Book of Mormon... nor a Watchtower pamphlet... they are reading from a King James bible! I stood back and waited to be acknowledged. They both looked in my direction and went right back to what they were discussing... sin... the many sins of man... and which commandments man is to live by to be free from sin...
So I wait...
Patiently...
and then I did the 'mom tap' with my foot followed by an "ahem"...
Both men turned to look at me and I pulled out my most dramatic 'bi-polar mom' voice and said, "What about the sin of not honoring your father and mother when they've called you to dinner THREE TIMES?"
Blank stares.
I explained that while I appreciated the important work they were doing, I was not going to tolerate being undermined by men any more and that they must leave my property at once, respect my 'no soliciting' sign and "respect my authoritay"! (Because no dramatic enactment is complete without a South Park quote.)
The little Amish one tried to hand me a small brochure to which I replied, "No thank you. I'm VERY firm in my faith and VERY positive that we have no business together" as I walked back around the corner and into my house muttering aloud in an effort to convince them that I was truly mentally unstable.
They littered my front door with their propaganda anyhow, and as soon as I saw the name of the pastor, everything clicked.
Pastor Steven Anderson of the Faithful Word Baptist Church.
No, I've never attended services there. I don't associate myself as a Baptist (having been raised non-denominational) and there's no good reason that his name would ring a bell.
Except that I have a strange hobby that started way back in the day when I was cast in a production of 'The Laramie Project'. I ended up not being able to do the show, but in some of my 'table work' (an actor's version of homework/research) I ended up reading a string of articles about the Westboro Baptist Church and Pastor Fred Phelps (of 'God Hates Fags' and funeral protestation fame). Since then, I've made it a habit to keep myself educated and informed about the agendas and missions of these factions. I don't know why... it's not like I wish to give them much of my time or energy, and reading about them usually pisses me off and makes me feel bitter towards Christians in general.
Long story short, I read articles about this Pastor and some trouble that he had both locally (going head-to-head with community groups and other churches) as well as a rather public incident coming back from Mexico that resulted in him getting his belligerent, holier-than-thou ass beat down by border patrol officers. (I admittedly watched all of the youtube videos, hoping that I could side with him and use his experience to quote one of my anti-government/power-hungry-cops rants, but instead formed the honest opinion that he was being a douche and deserved to get his face pummeled.) His most recent controversy was calling for his congregation to pray for the death of Obama.
His church engages in 'soul-saving' on a daily basis in their community... which is apparently also my community. Awesome.
I won't go into my own personal spiritual beliefs, but I do not and cannot and will not ascribe to any belief system that calls for someone's death or destruction. That's a big deal-breaker for me.
And so it was... that on this day... when I usually feel a momentary pang of remorse for turning people away from my door in an assertive manner... I felt a pang of remorse that I wasn't on top of my game enough to recognize him while he was in front of me so I could REALLY unload my inner angst.
I think this might be the first time that I'm hoping missionaries come back.
It's the first time in ages that I want to engage in spiritual debate again. I want to pick the brains of these homegrown, uneducated, backwards idiots who end up in positions of leadership... advising the masses... and find out how and why they are capable of perpetuating the convictions and philosophies they do.
In the meantime, I think I may have to change the wording of my 'no soliciting' sign to be a bit more specific.
Well gee, Andi... have you stopped to analyze this?
Yeah, I have, smarty-pants. And I'm still going to be opinionated about it.
Some of you may know this, but for those that don't, a little background:
I was very involved in my church throughout all of my youth. Not only did my family go to church religiously (pun intended), but we were involved in the church choir, the youth groups, my parents were counselors, my uncle was the youth pastor for a short time, etc, etc. We didn't just go to church on Sunday morning. We went Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and often other days between. I was a 'sidewalk evangelist' which is another name for a door-to-door missionary... I was a tool for God... a fisher of men... I just got a little sidetracked on the kind of man-fishing I was supposed to be doing, I suppose, but I digress...
I have nothing to discuss with missionaries. I used to entertain long religious debates, having memorized a good deal of scripture in my youth, but those debates lost their luster as I became a bit more set in my ways and intolerant of 19-year-old kids trying to give me advice.
See, that's the thing... I never like hurting people's feelings and I don't ever want these people to feel rejected themselves because I'm rejecting their religion. It's silly, I know... but I'm a people-pleaser and I think about stupid stuff like that. As I get older, however, I've grown more impatient with those that 'invade my space' uninvited or unannounced.
My old house was in a neighborhood that was regularly canvassed by Mormons at dinnertime. It was probably the third or fourth time I had answered the door with an oven-mitt on one hand, random utensil in the other, TV blaring in the background, phone ringing... that I directed them to the 'no soliciting' sign and told them that it included soliciting sprinkler, sound, alarm, and belief systems. They didn't come back.
And so it was that I moved into my new house and was returning after running some errands to find two men at my front door talking to my 17-year-old son.
Now, there were a couple things wrong with the picture right off the bat...
First, I do have a 'no soliciting' sign right by the front door.
I have decided that 'soliciting' is the LEAST known word in the English language. 95% of the time I point to that sign, I am met with a confused look as if to say, "Well I don't know what that means, but I assure you it does not apply to me!"
The second thing wrong with this picture was that my son was standing there with the door open... security screen still locked firmly between him and his guests. It was 112 degrees outside... and at the point that I walked in, it was about 90 degrees in the house. Grrrrr.
There was an uncomfortable energy in the air. I couldn't identify it... but it was that feeling when you walk into your home and automatically know something is "off". Those are the times I immediately start looking for signs of something broken or spilled or otherwise 'out of whack'. In this case, it was just an odd, oppressive energy.
I figured that hollering "Dinner's Ready!" would be a good 'hint' to our guests that it was time to wrap it up without butting into their conversation and being rude. I have yet to hear a peep from my son - he's merely listening. I catch his eye, and realize he may need assistance in being assertive with the fellah who is just still talking - and apparently not about to be interrupted.
So, I quietly stepped out the side door to get face-to-face with the interlopers.
As I approached, I realized that they were not Mormon missionaries as I first assumed.
Although they wore similar garb, one of the fellahs had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal full sleeves of intricate tattoo work. His companion looked like an Amish guy (3/4 scale, cuz he was really short) who had borrowed his dad's suit jacket.
Then I realize that they're not reading from the Book of Mormon... nor a Watchtower pamphlet... they are reading from a King James bible! I stood back and waited to be acknowledged. They both looked in my direction and went right back to what they were discussing... sin... the many sins of man... and which commandments man is to live by to be free from sin...
So I wait...
Patiently...
and then I did the 'mom tap' with my foot followed by an "ahem"...
Both men turned to look at me and I pulled out my most dramatic 'bi-polar mom' voice and said, "What about the sin of not honoring your father and mother when they've called you to dinner THREE TIMES?"
Blank stares.
I explained that while I appreciated the important work they were doing, I was not going to tolerate being undermined by men any more and that they must leave my property at once, respect my 'no soliciting' sign and "respect my authoritay"! (Because no dramatic enactment is complete without a South Park quote.)
The little Amish one tried to hand me a small brochure to which I replied, "No thank you. I'm VERY firm in my faith and VERY positive that we have no business together" as I walked back around the corner and into my house muttering aloud in an effort to convince them that I was truly mentally unstable.
They littered my front door with their propaganda anyhow, and as soon as I saw the name of the pastor, everything clicked.
Pastor Steven Anderson of the Faithful Word Baptist Church.
No, I've never attended services there. I don't associate myself as a Baptist (having been raised non-denominational) and there's no good reason that his name would ring a bell.
Except that I have a strange hobby that started way back in the day when I was cast in a production of 'The Laramie Project'. I ended up not being able to do the show, but in some of my 'table work' (an actor's version of homework/research) I ended up reading a string of articles about the Westboro Baptist Church and Pastor Fred Phelps (of 'God Hates Fags' and funeral protestation fame). Since then, I've made it a habit to keep myself educated and informed about the agendas and missions of these factions. I don't know why... it's not like I wish to give them much of my time or energy, and reading about them usually pisses me off and makes me feel bitter towards Christians in general.
Long story short, I read articles about this Pastor and some trouble that he had both locally (going head-to-head with community groups and other churches) as well as a rather public incident coming back from Mexico that resulted in him getting his belligerent, holier-than-thou ass beat down by border patrol officers. (I admittedly watched all of the youtube videos, hoping that I could side with him and use his experience to quote one of my anti-government/power-hungry-cops rants, but instead formed the honest opinion that he was being a douche and deserved to get his face pummeled.) His most recent controversy was calling for his congregation to pray for the death of Obama.
His church engages in 'soul-saving' on a daily basis in their community... which is apparently also my community. Awesome.
I won't go into my own personal spiritual beliefs, but I do not and cannot and will not ascribe to any belief system that calls for someone's death or destruction. That's a big deal-breaker for me.
And so it was... that on this day... when I usually feel a momentary pang of remorse for turning people away from my door in an assertive manner... I felt a pang of remorse that I wasn't on top of my game enough to recognize him while he was in front of me so I could REALLY unload my inner angst.
I think this might be the first time that I'm hoping missionaries come back.
It's the first time in ages that I want to engage in spiritual debate again. I want to pick the brains of these homegrown, uneducated, backwards idiots who end up in positions of leadership... advising the masses... and find out how and why they are capable of perpetuating the convictions and philosophies they do.
In the meantime, I think I may have to change the wording of my 'no soliciting' sign to be a bit more specific.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Life is like...
So, I'm writing a lot these days, but I'm afraid none of it is going to come to any fruition. Mostly I'm my own worst critic, but rarely does material make it from my fingers to the keyboard without me thinking at least twice, "This is total crap."
I found myself stuck in an extended metaphor where I illustrated my theory on life being like a successful game of Solitaire and realized that A) I need a bit more literary inspiration -and- B) I play too much Solitaire.
I also decided that "life is like" is one of the easiest (and therefore lamest) literary devices to use because it's already so overused. We all know what life is like. It's like a box of chocolates, riding a bicycle, a coin, a blanket too short, the sea, a boat, a song, a symphony, a tapestry, a puzzle, a book, a boxing ring, a racetrack, a chess game, an hourglass glued to the table, etc. etc. And so my chapter on 'Solitaire' will most likely not make the final cut. At this rate, I'm tossing 6-8 chapters for every one that I keep. Needless to say, my progress is... um... slow.
Frustrating, to say the least.
I have a few more callbacks coming up this week, so that's something to look forward to... I'm anxious to have my season mapped out. I find that it's more than a feeling of security with having work (though that's a big part of it). I like having shows to immerse myself in. I will listen to soundtracks for weeks/months at a time, and get really pumped about the production... and feel less inclined to have to 'cram' last minute when I've got an idea what I'm doing (or can get the script ahead of time). I'm anxious to get back to the busy season. I do love my summers because I have more time with the kids as well as having time to write and indulge in some of my neglected pet projects... And as much as I love teaching and working from home, I miss having rehearsals or performances to go to. When I have no set schedule or agenda, I have a tendency to procrastinate.
Which is why half of these boxes are still lingering in what should be my functional office while I blog on my laptop in the living room...
And on that note, I must return to my domestic duties for the day. After all, life is like the laundry buzzer always snapping one back to reality...
I found myself stuck in an extended metaphor where I illustrated my theory on life being like a successful game of Solitaire and realized that A) I need a bit more literary inspiration -and- B) I play too much Solitaire.
I also decided that "life is like" is one of the easiest (and therefore lamest) literary devices to use because it's already so overused. We all know what life is like. It's like a box of chocolates, riding a bicycle, a coin, a blanket too short, the sea, a boat, a song, a symphony, a tapestry, a puzzle, a book, a boxing ring, a racetrack, a chess game, an hourglass glued to the table, etc. etc. And so my chapter on 'Solitaire' will most likely not make the final cut. At this rate, I'm tossing 6-8 chapters for every one that I keep. Needless to say, my progress is... um... slow.
Frustrating, to say the least.
I have a few more callbacks coming up this week, so that's something to look forward to... I'm anxious to have my season mapped out. I find that it's more than a feeling of security with having work (though that's a big part of it). I like having shows to immerse myself in. I will listen to soundtracks for weeks/months at a time, and get really pumped about the production... and feel less inclined to have to 'cram' last minute when I've got an idea what I'm doing (or can get the script ahead of time). I'm anxious to get back to the busy season. I do love my summers because I have more time with the kids as well as having time to write and indulge in some of my neglected pet projects... And as much as I love teaching and working from home, I miss having rehearsals or performances to go to. When I have no set schedule or agenda, I have a tendency to procrastinate.
Which is why half of these boxes are still lingering in what should be my functional office while I blog on my laptop in the living room...
And on that note, I must return to my domestic duties for the day. After all, life is like the laundry buzzer always snapping one back to reality...
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