Church Bulletin

Dear Parishioners:

As you know, the assault on marriage and the family continues. We must be ever vigilant in our defense of this most holy and unchanging union.  Therefore, next week we will work to thwart the redefinition of marriage by celebrating “Traditional Marriage Sunday” which will take place immediately following Sunday services.  I hope that you will join me for this most important event. 

But who says discrimination has to be boring? Not us! We’ve lined up some fun and educational activities to showcase “Traditional Marriage”. Here are just a few zany highlights:

·         Arrange my marriage!:  Do you have a single daughter?  Are you concerned about her future?  Then join us while our esteemed organist, Miss Rapture plays her own rendition of “Single Ladies” on the Wurlitzer as we pull photos from a boy grab bag and girl grab bag to arrange the perfect marriage!  This one is sure to fill up quickly so please add your progeny’s name to the sign-up list and bring a 5X7 photo with your child’s name written in indelible ink on the back.

·         Count the Wives:  Think you know how many wives each biblical man had?   The rules are simple, we give you a name. You shout out a number.  Easy peasy right? But wait: one is rarely the answer. How many wives did Solomon have? Don’t even get us started, LOL!

·         Take my widow… Please? Have a childless, widowed Sister-In-Law?   Join this discussion group and help a sister out.  Are you confused by Leviticus and Deuteronomy’s conflicting advice on the subject?  Marry her; don’t marry her, what’s a brother to do? We’ll discuss the finer points and bring a conclusion to this interesting and perplexing conundrum.

·         Medieval Marriage Cake Walk: Political intrigue!  Secrets!  War! Royalty!  Are you a pawn, a knight, a king or a queen?  (not that kind…LOL)  This game will be sure to please and enlighten you to the mystery of medieval marriages when women were sold like property to create strategic political alliances.  Sound like chess?  It is!  If you get check-mate then you’re going home with one of Miss Lou Ann’s tasty wedding cakes!

Now all of this tom foolery in the name of good old fashioned values will be sure to leave you famished.  You’ll be pleased to know that Miss Green’s delicious shrimp salad will be for sale and now for the surprise news…. Chick-Fil-A will serve chicken sandwiches dripping in their brand new Antigé sauce!  Sounds French, but you’ll forgive them for that when you try this new devilishly hot sauce that puts the “ate” back in hate!

Now, brothers and sisters some serious news; As you know there were some unfortunate photos that have surfaced of yours truly while I attempted to help some errant sheep get back over their fence.  Miss Brown will be selling her beautiful cotton poly blend smocks to help raise funds for my court battle with PETA.  You will love these dresses, stains don’t stick, they stay miraculously clean.

So come on out! (Unless you’re gay)

Signed,

The most Reverend Whatawaste

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The Plan

Paul has a plan.

He always has a plan. This is one of the things that I love about him. Without provocation, he says “Huh, that’s a cute idea” as if I can hear the conversation taking place in his head, which is another thing I love about him. He thinks that I can read his mind.

“What?” I say, proving that I cannot indeed, read his thoughts.

“The Powerball lottery is now three hundred million dollars. We’ll pass through eight states on our drive home. Let’s stop and buy a ticket in each one,” he says.

This makes me very happy. We are going to drive seven hundred miles; eleven hours in the car and this plan makes me happy. Perhaps I cannot read his mind, but surely he can read mine.

We have come to Virginia to move my oldest daughter into her off campus apartment. I am such a fool. I thought that because I had already experienced the pain of separation when my ex-wife left with my daughters the first time that this would not be difficult. But last night’s parting loops through my mind like a broken record.

Walking through her apartment, I search for things left undone. The trash needs to be taken out. The nightlights need to be plugged in. “Make sure you keep that window in your bedroom locked.” I tell her. But it is of no use, if I look hard enough I will always find things left undone.

“I will Dad. I don’t want you guys to leave.” She says holding her arms out, signaling that it is time for us to leave. I pull her to me and hold on, inhaling the scent of her. Not the soap she uses, or the shampoo, but the scent that parents love when they smell the top of a baby’s head; because it is a part of themselves.

When I let go and look up, I see Paul’s face. He wears an upside down smile and his eyes answer my question.

“OK, I’m leaving now, goodbye.” I say looking away.

As I walk to the car, a part of me reflexively expects Katherine to follow shouting “Daddy, wait” because this is what would occur when as a child she tarried. I would say the exact words “OK, I’m leaving now, goodbye” and make an exaggerated exit like a vaudevillian actor.

This time, she does not follow.

We wake up early the next morning and begin our trip home. We stop to fill up the car with gas and purchase our first lottery ticket in Virginia. The day is wrapped in promise as the slanted early morning sun shines through the car windows.

“Will we change anything when we win?” I ask as I turn to face Paul in the driver’s seat.

“You know I don’t think that way.” He says looking straight ahead.

But as our cache of lottery tickets grows we begin to discuss what we will do with the winnings. We would most certainly keep working, but just until we get pissed off by some transgression at work, which is estimated to take fifteen minutes, tops. Paul would purchase a Bentley automobile and I would become a full time writer. We begin to mentally cancel upcoming social engagements because we’ll be busy meeting with our financial advisors and accountants.

The evening light is golden as we make our final stop thirty minutes west of Boston to buy our last lottery ticket. In no time at all we are home.

Of course you know that we did not win the lottery. But that was not the plan. Turns out that Paul can read my mind. He knew that eight tickets, a mere sixteen dollars, would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the eleven hour car ride home; to keep me from thinking about things left undone.

Paul had a plan.


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The F-Bomb

“Don't use the F-word in your writing.”  My mother said peering over her glasses.

I recognized the all too familiar look on her face.  It was the one she used for things such as, oh, the discovery of “nasty” magazines stuffed between my mattress and box spring.   But I was an adult man in my forties now and if I wanted to use the F-bomb, then fuck it, I would use it.

“I agree with your mother.” Paul blurted out.  I shot him a look that said we’d deal with this act of treason later.

“Well, if you do use it, it should be reserved for punctuation.”  He said smiling nervously, his index finger making an imaginary exclamation point. His eyes were darting between me and my mother, trying to move us somewhere into the middle.  But I wouldn’t budge.

“This is the way people talk.  I’m just trying to keep it real.”   I said doing my best what-what? thug body pose.

“You don’t talk that way. I taught you better.”  My mother said, and she was right.  I don’t talk that way.  But that was not the point.  The point was that I was being told by my seventy three year old mother that I should not do something.  She should have learned by now that if she told me not to do something I would pursue it with fucking gusto.

But every time I started to write, I found that I could not use the word.

“There are a plethora of substitutes: ‘Darn it’, ‘Gosh’ and if you want to give it a British flare, how about ‘Bloody’?”  Paul said trying to be helpful.

“Right. That is just bloody brill!”  I replied sarcastically.  I had not forgiven him for siding with my mother and added “Why should I listen to someone who uses the fucking word plethora anyway?”

As a writer, I wanted to feel free to express my thoughts, emotions and experiences without feeling that a censor was looking over my shoulder.  But my mother’s “tsk-tsk” echoed in my brain.  Using the f-bomb made me feel less literary and more trailer-trash, looking for a cheap laugh with a fart joke.

And then I picked up The New Yorker magazine.  Right there in the middle of the magazine was an essay that had not one, but three F-bombs in it, four if you included wtf.   It also included the term dick-slapped, but I thought that might be pushing things a bit.  And besides, I wasn’t sure if being dick-slapped was a good thing or a bad thing.  I mean, I could see both sides.

This was irrefutable proof that using the F-bomb was not only acceptable, but might actually help to get me published more widely.   So, by my count I’ve used the word three times in this post, four if you include wtf....which I have just used again.

The New Yorker should be calling me any minute, but my mother is going to be so fucking pissed.

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The Science of Waves

At night while lying in bed I could feel the phantom undertow of the ocean: pull and release, pull and release, pull and release.

We would sleep with the windows open and listen to the ocean crash in the distance never knowing if the sea would be calm or rough the next morning and never understanding or questioning why.  It simply was.  My brothers and I would wake early, eat our breakfast as quickly as possible, wait the obligatory thirty minutes mandated by my mother and then run down the boardwalk from our rental beach house and through the still cool powdery sand.

Hesitating for a moment, one of us would then take the lead and run headlong into the cold water and the rest would follow.  We would float in the sea like bell buoys occasionally shouting out “This one looks like a good one!” and quickly paddle either towards or away from the wave. If it turned out to be promising we would turn towards shore and swim to catch the swell and ride on top of it, millions of tiny air bubbles fizzing around us.   The excitement of the ride was tempered by the realization that a wave could suddenly become too strong and plunge us underwater rolling us head over heels along the sandy bottom and causing us to inhale the burning salty water through our noses.  And so as a child, I became the ocean’s flotsam and jetsam for a week every summer on the outer banks of North Carolina.

One of the last visits to the beach with my father stretched from one week to two.  His intent was to shield us from the wave of publicity back home surrounding his disbarment as an attorney.  Just as I could not see the wave behind the current one, I did not see the financial ruin of our family on the horizon and my father’s name splashed across the newspapers.

I did not know or understand the science of waves as a child.  That a disturbance created by the air brushing against the water from as far away as one thousand miles could create a wave that I could not see until it threatened to topple me.

When I became a father I tried to teach my girls how to ride the waves. When they were little, I would pick them up and hold them close as we ventured into the water.  They trusted me then, as I used to trust my father to never let go.

But a wave is circular.  It wants to return and if you are not prepared the undertow created can pull your feet from under you and with your arms so full it can be impossible to maintain your balance.

My beautiful daughters are college age now and looking down from the crest of a wave in the same ocean I see that they have survived; best to stop pulling them towards me now and learn how to release.

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On Vacation!

Greetings From Maine

See you Next week!

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Sunflower

We would always pull up a chair when Ron began to tell a story.  It wasn’t so much because he knew how to weave words together in a way that held us in breathless anticipation; nor was it because he was a master of the surprise ending.  It was more because we wanted to be comfortable while he rambled, often losing sight of the story’s point.  After a good amount of time, he would reach the end of the story and invariably end it with his signature dismissive phrase “And all that kind of stuff.”  Story over.

Ron was a tall, thin man with a large nose, big heart and a warm smile.  You couldn’t really mention Ron without adding “and Dean”.  The two were inseparable.  When Paul first introduced them to me, he referred to them as his gay fathers.  They were not, in fact, related to him by blood, but they were by heart.  After I met them the first time Ron issued an uncharacteristic short reply when Paul asked him what he thought of me.  “He’s a keeper.”

If I can’t separate the words Ron and Dean, it is even harder to split apart the words Ron and summer. Paul and I would drive up to southern Maine on summer weekends and watch our cares wash away with the tide.  The days seemed to stretch out wider than the blue sky.  At night we would always meet Ron and Dean, who called Ogunquit, Maine their weekend home.

I should correct myself.  It wasn’t Ron and Dean, but Ron and Crystal Chandelier that we would meet.  Dean is a slight, quiet man, but his alter ego, Crystal Chandelier is like Oprah, all hair, make-up and personality; but whiter, blonder, much thinner and a vision of glitter, feathers and sequins. Ron always coordinated his suits to match and would stand tall and proud, nodding and basking in the glow.

One summer the four of us rented a cottage together.  It would be the first time that I met Dean as himself.  I am ashamed to admit it now, but during the early part of our relationship, I often wondered why a man would find another man who sometimes dressed as a woman attractive.  While we sat on the deck on a sunny afternoon that summer, Ron began a story with twists and turns and diversions that taxed my ability to find a point.  Every time I thought the story had reached its conclusion, Dean would join us on the deck with a drink; each time looking more like Crystal.  When I asked Ron how long it took Dean to complete the transformation he quipped “Four hours and a bottle of booze.”

Finally, Ron reached the conclusion which was a story about the first time he saw Dean. “He was wearing only a pair of jeans, a feather boa and walked right past me.  I thought, that’s the guy for me.”  Just then Crystal appeared, a blinding vision, and said “If you are going to do something, it’s only worth doing if you do it all the way.”  I could then see what Ron saw in Dean.  It wasn’t the hair, make up or glitter.  He loved him because he bloomed in the light radiated by Dean's fierce heart.

When we went into the club, people clamored to have photographs taken with Crystal. They were celebrities. Ron stood lovingly by Dean’s side reveling in the glow.  At one point during the evening I began to notice more men join us offering to buy me and Paul drinks.  After we left, I mentioned to Ron that their celebrity had benefits.  He looked at me and flatly said “They didn't buy us drinks because of Dean.  They bought us drinks because when you were in the restroom, I told them you used to be a gay porn star.”

Eventually summer ended and Ron’s own story reached its conclusion. His knee started acting up six months ago. Cancer had spread from his lungs to his entire body.  He didn’t burden us with this knowledge.  He simply stood in the background nodding like a sunflower until the end. But, I know something now that I didn’t know then.  I underestimated Ron's ability to weave a wonderful story, capable of great humor and a surprise ending.

And all that kind of stuff.

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A Maine Romance

If you are looking for love, do not build a house in Maine.

Do not sit on a wide sandy beach under a blue sky painted with wispy white clouds and listen to the romantic sounds of distant bell buoys and laughing gulls. Do not drive along Route one with the car windows down, salty sea air in your hair and marvel at rolling green lawns, craggy ocean side cliffs and white clapboard homes. Do not sip from a glass of wine in a harbor side restaurant at sunset while watching a sailboat’s brilliant white sail bend against the wind.

Above all, do not wander into an open house and talk to a builder about upgrades.  You will fall in love and when he ultimately becomes unavailable? Your heart will be broken.

Our affair began as all affairs do.  We coveted.  We desired.  We had to have it at any cost.

His words were too hard to resist.  “This view?  It’s the best in the development” our builder, Mark said as he winked at us.  He was a burly man with a gruff voice, but he knew exactly what to say. “You want a shower with two heads?  I can give it to you.”  He whispered.

Paul looked at me and he knew in that instant, I was smitten.

The affair continued in a whirl wind of expensive gifts: upgrades and options.  Nothing was too dear for our Maine cottage.  Yes, we must have custom audio visual, anything less than hardwoods, granite, stainless steel and custom tile would cheapen our love, our precious.

We would visit on weekends, intoxicated by the heady elixir of a new romance.  We watched our love grow.  The bare bones of the frame became smooth walls, the glint of the hardwood floors in the afternoon sun flirted with us.

Then one day Mark casually asked “Have you seen the shower?”

It was a thing of beauty.  Smooth glass and marble tile stretched from wall to wall.  Two shower heads on either side beckoned to us.  “Go ahead, step in!”  Mark jokingly ordered us.

There we stood, two men fully clothed standing in a shower looking slightly embarrassed.  Mark laughed at us and said “You are too cute.”  It was the pinnacle of our relationship.

But on the day of consummation, the closing, the love began to sour.  Others were introduced into the relationship.  “This is Hank; he’s going to finish your tile.”  Mark said casually as he hopped into his Corvette and disappeared, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

“But today is the closing, will it be completed? And what about the stove, shouldn’t it be in the kitchen instead of on the front deck?”  I asked Hank, trying not to sound jilted.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’ll be here all next week to finish up that stuff, but I have a court appearance that I’m late for.  I’ll see you in five to ten.”  He laughed manically as he stepped into his truck and drove away.

“He was joking, right?” I asked, searching Paul’s face for answers.

“About going to prison or finishing up our cottage?”  Paul answered my question with a question.  I didn’t know which was more alarming.

We began to find telltale signs of infidelity.  The tile in the shower was unfinished.  There was no refrigerator and the dishwasher was merely for show.  Our home was only a shell.  A pretty shell, but a shell nonetheless.

Over the following days, our time with Mark and Hank began to dwindle.  It was clear they were spending time at other cottages.

“What did we do wrong?” I asked Paul.

“They’ll be back.  They always come back.” He tried to sound re-assuring.

Week after week we would receive empty promises.  “I’ll be by in the morning.”  Hank would say.  I would stand by the window trying not to appear too eager.  Hank would show up sometime late in the afternoon, reeking with the smell of construction materials from another cottage.

“You’ve been working at someone else’s cottage haven’t you?”  I demanded answers.  Little things would get done, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Eventually, we found a support group.  Other cottage owners came forward for a “Get to know you” cook out.  We met Renee and Roger first.  We poured our hearts out as we sipped vodka tonics from our green and blue tumblers.

“Oh honey, we’ve been here for three years. You’re nothing special.”  Renee said as she took a long sip and peered over her sunglasses.

“Are you a top or a bottom?”  She quizzed me.

“Excuse me?”  I thought I misunderstood.

“A top or bottom unit?”  She asked, slightly annoyed.

“Oh, we’re tops.”  I answered.

 “Then the dust from the unpaved street shouldn’t bother you too much.  Do you know how long we have been waiting for this road to be paved?  Don’t worry, it will get done.  But, you’re on Maine time now.  Everything is a little s-l-o-w-e-r here.”  She took another long sip and then barked “Roger, I’m empty!”

Sometimes, I will see Hank’s truck and Mark’s Corvette parked in the development and experience a little thrill.  But, I won’t let myself think about those early days when they couldn’t keep their tools off of our cottage.  I’m in it for the long haul.

They’ll be back.  They always come back.  

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