good thing i'm already hell-bound

My former pastor posted an article on my Facebook today about how reading fiction can deepen spiritual (specifically Christian) practices and experiences. I commented that it was an interesting piece, and that i had had a recent discussion with a friend about the one book (besides the Bible) that has had the biggest impact on my spiritual life. That one book was The Things They Carried.

Well, Pastor got really excited and decided he had to check it out. He recommended another book to me (one about the Gospels), and then told me he had added The Things They Carried to his Amazon wish list.

Now, here's the thing: Those of you who haven't read The Things They Carried, shame on you. Read it now. In the meantime, i should tell you that it is not, explicitly, a spiritual book. It's a work of metafiction, focused on one man's experiences in the Vietnam War. And it is not delicate in its handling of the life of a soldier.

There is a lot of foul language, is what i'm saying. There is also a lot of violence, anger, depression, frank discussion of wounds and diseases and what would lead a man to shoot his own toe off just to escape the horror of it all.

This is not a beautiful redemption tale. Nor is it a metaphor for finding God everywhere, even in a (quite literal) field full of shit. It is not something that most people would see a whole lot of spirituality in, of any religion.

But i wasn't kidding when i talked about the huge spiritual impact this book has had on me. I've mentioned it before in reference to interpreting Scriptures. It really did help me approach the Bible in a whole new way. The Things They Carried, more than any other book except the Bible, has changed my life.

Here's where the "going-to-hell" part comes in: i didn't talk to my former pastor about any of this. I briefly considered warning him about the language, the coarseness, the vulgarity and grittiness and darkness and indelicacy and horror. I thought about letting him know that this is not like C. S. Lewis or Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Joni Erickson Tada.

But then i imagined this very conservative, fairly uptight, appearances-oriented middle-aged pastor settling down in Starbucks with his coffee and his sermon notes and a shiny new copy of The Things They Carried, and i pictured his face somewhere around the sixth F-bomb.

And i said nothing.

Hector Elizondo

I am a regular reader of The Bloggess, who is way better at everything in life than most people will ever be at anything, and who owns a giant metal chicken named Beyonce. I once sent my boyfriend a link to the story where Jenny first procured Beyonce, because i thought it was a funny example of the kind of thing that would happen in our household one day. He immediately responded that i was never allowed to have a giant metal chicken. It escalated into a Facebook debate involving two of our other friends. This fight, by the way? Happened on the weekend we were celebrating my birthday. And Christmas. (Rude, John. Rude.)

And THEN!!! Jenny bought another, less giant metal chicken, and offered it up as a prize in this post. Obviously, the chicken in question was named Hector Elizondo, but some other people disagreed with me and i did not win it, despite the flawless argument in my comment to Jenny:

My boyfriend and i had a fight on my birthday about whether or not i was allowed to have a Beyonce of my very own. If i win this one, it’s free, which means that it’s like a gift, which means that i HAVE to keep it. Because it would be rude not to. But maybe he’ll make me keep it in the attic and only bring it out when Jenny visits. But Jenny will probably NEVER visit, John, because we live in Massachusetts and she lives in Texas and we have never met! So it’s just going to be in the attic all the time? What’s the point of that?! I can’t believe how he tries to suppress my decorating instincts. Rude. I am so mad at him right now!

Anyway, once i had entered the contest, i waited until John and i were snuggling in bed one night to spring the ultimate bargaining chip: i would wear a wedding dress on our wedding day if he would let me have a giant metal chicken.

Let me give you some background: when i was fifteen or sixteen, a friend of mine got married. I was a bridesmaid. The stress and politics and bullshit involved in a wedding seemed unthinkably absurd to me. American wedding culture makes this "the bride's day", which makes me viscerally angry; the whole point of a wedding is that TWO people are in a RELATIONSHIP. I don't like to be the center of attention, and i especially don't want to be the center of attention on a day that is supposed to be about me and my HUSBAND. Furthermore, i hate planning, and big events, and spending unnecessary money, and pretty much everything about weddings. Don't get me wrong: i like marriage, and want to be married one day, and i am that girl that has been dreaming about big fancy beautiful weddings since i was three. But so much of the crap that goes along with weddings is just that: crap.

The solution seemed obvious: a near-elopement, where the only people invited are the ones who are so important to your lives, both as individuals and as a couple, that you couldn’t imagine your wedding day without them. Have a casual ceremony in someone’s back yard. Don't announce the date before-hand. Wear t-shirts and jeans. Carry a bouquet of wildflowers harvested from the side of the road. Have an open-house reception after the honeymoon for all the people who weren't invited.

I’m totally serious about the t-shirt and jeans thing, by the way. I imagined myself in a white t-shirt (to keep up the “bridal” appearance), blue jeans (something blue) my mother’s pearls (something borrowed), and white Old Navy flip-flops (brand new, of course). Agelseb insisted that i had to wear a veil, so i considered something simple and no more than elbow-length. Or maybe just fresh flowers in my hair and screw her.

But John was not happy with this. He really wanted me to wear a wedding gown.

What he doesn’t know (or won't until he reads this) is that i had already decided to wear a dress. I stumbled across THE dress one day, totally by accident, and knew instantly that i would be married in that gown. But i continued to tease John with casual dress ideas.

“Maybe i’ll wear the dress i wore on our first date. That was white.”

“Yeah, but it was also kind of . . . short. And tight.”

“Yeah. Sexy! You loved it, remember? You thought i looked totally hot.”

“Yeah, but for your wedding, you don’t really want to be . . . hot. You're supposed to be more elegant and -- you can still be casual! -- but it's more about, like, purity and love. Not just sexiness.”

“Well, i have that white sundress, too. It's longer and not so tight. Maybe i’ll just wear that.”

But Hector Elizondo proved John's undoing. In an attempt to butter John up to the inevitability of me one day owning a metal chicken of a yet-to-be-determined size, i promised him that i would wear a wedding dress if he would allow me to have a metal chicken. He agreed, and then became very proud of himself for having made a deal that did not require him to display said metal chicken (just as i had predicted he would). Little did he know that he had actually lost the battle, since i had already found THE dress and planned to buy it without telling him.

Now all i need is Hector Elizondo and my victory will be complete! And the thing that sweetens the victory? John is so determined for me to wear a wedding dress that he is now committed to helping me find a metal chicken, just so that i will be "forced" to hold up my end of the deal, which i was already going to anyway. Basically, i manipulated my boyfriend into doing something that i wanted in exchange for a promise that i would do something else i wanted to do.

This is going to be the best marriage ever.

Secret Santa

Yesterday was our office Secret Santa gift exchange/Christmas potluck. Through a bizarre turn of events, i somehow ended up with two gifts (no, i didn't rig the drawing. I swear. In fact, i almost got left out of the gift exchange all together. I swear i didn't rig it. Shut up.)

Anyway, one gift was a gift card to Amazon, which was awesome. The other one was a framed photograph of me.

Let me explain, because that sentence comes nowhere near the glorious awkwardness of this gift.

My Secret Santa took this photo from my Facebook:

"No, don't take a picture! Gah, i look so ugly!"
Just kidding. This was from my senior photoshoot.

He then took a photo of himself and photoshopped it like this:

"Friends are the Family you Choose".

Once my gasping laughter had subsided, he explained that the real gift was the frame.
"Girls like frames."
". . . girls like frames?" i asked, confused.
"Yeah. Girls like frames. I had a girlfriend once. I know what they like."

I really wanted to write a funny punchline to go with that, but as Emily once told me, "Sometimes the facts need no commentary." This is my life.

The Cake

Today, when i got to my desk, there was a note to say that Facilities was going to take the Admissions van in for an oil change. An hour or so later, someone from Facilities stopped by.

Facilities: Hi, are any of the enrollment counselors around?
Me: Um, everyone is in a meeting. Can I help you?
F: Well, we're taking you guys' van in for an oil change, but there's a box in the passenger's seat from a bakery. We'll be gone for a while, so I didn't know if you'd want to keep it in here. You probably don't want it sitting out in the sun.
M: Yeah, uh, thanks. I don't know what it could be for. I'll come and get it.
F: We didn't know if it was for a birthday or something, so I didn't even know who to talk to about it.
M: I don't think we have any birthdays. I don't know what it could be.

The box was large and cardboard. The contents felt heavy and solid, so i ruled out pastries or bagels. Almost definitely a cake of some kind. As i walked back to the office, cradling the box in both arms (it was very large), it occurred to me that, if it was a surprise cake for a birthday or other celebration, there was a good chance that there would be some kind of name or message on it. If i looked at the cake, i could probably learn who it was for.

I opened the box. Inside was a long, narrow shape with two rounded protuberances at the base. The end had a cap, or head. The whole thing was smoothly iced in flesh-colored frosting or fondant, and little swirls of dark brown icing adorned the two swellings at the base.

In short, it was a penis cake.

A chunk was missing from one of the testicles, as if someone had leaned over and taken a bite right out of the ball. The cake inside was dark and chocolatey.

I stood there a moment, stunned. Here i was, in the Admissions office of a private, conservative Christian college, and someone had left a penis cake in our van. The van that only enrollment counselors use.

I taped up the box and wrote a 'DO NOT OPEN' note on the top. I put the cake into the refrigerator and stepped into the Director's office.

Me: Hi. Do you have a second?
Director: Sure.
M: Um, Facilities is taking our van for an oil change, and they told me that there was something left in it, so I went out there to bring it in. And it's a penis cake.
D: . . . . . .
M: I didn't really know what to do, so I thought I should tell you about it.
D: . . . Huh. Okay. Thanks for letting me know about that. *giggle* Uh, okay!
M: Yeah. That's all. It's in our refrigerator now.
D: Is the box clear?
M: No, it's cardboard. I taped it closed.
D: Okay, good. Thanks.

We're still waiting to find out who it belongs to and what we should do with it.

Update: After some discussion of sneaking it into the President's office and leaving it there with no note, we decided to slice it up and serve it to the little old ladies in the building. Because if anyone deserves a big, moist, melt-in-your-mouth delicious piece of . . . cake, it's little old ladies. Am i right?

When we cut into it, a thick white jelly-like substance squirted out.