The LOST Book was Weird and Creepy *spoiler warning*

So, a few weeks ago I gave you the top 10 things I had learned from LOST and told you I had a particular book on hold which would tell me the meaning of God and of life based on the TV show. I know, I know, you were all a little skeptical when the book sounded like it wanted to find definitive religious truths in a television show where Matthew Fox is a whiney little pain in my ass and where islands can move – if you know how to turn the right magical, icy wheel. Truth be told, I was a little skeptical too. But I persevered and put the book on hold, hoping to find the secrets of truth and honor inside its sad little pages. The book finally came out of hold and into my hand. And guess what – it was creepy and weird.

First of all, let’s look at the title. The authors called the book:
What Can Be Found In LOST: Insights on God and the Meaning of Life from the Popular TV Series


Unfortunately, they made a mistake in doing so. What they should have called the book is this:
Two Old Religious Guys Desperately Try To Make a Hit TV Series Relevant To Christianity, Even Though the Most Flattering Mention of Jesus in the Series Had to Do with Beating Someone With a Jesus Stick


Or perhaps this:
How to Use the Guise of a Popular Television Series to Trick People into Joining Your Religion


Either one would have been better, in my opinion. Now maybe it’s just me, but when I see a book that is supposed to give me ‘insights on God and the meaning of life’, I expect insights on God and the meaning of life. Insights, people. Insights. Not an instruction booklet detailing everything LOST got wrong from the Christian perspective and how to fix it so that we don’t all end up in hell. The longer I am away from the church the more I forget how asinine and infuriating Christian books can be, and how much it makes me want to puke when I’m directly told I won’t receive salvation if I don’t do X, Y, Z. Sorry guys, I didn’t interpret LOST correctly so I guess I’ll see you in the seventh circle of hell. That is the circle for people who don’t interpret TV shows correctly, right? I’ll have to check Dante on that one.

Secondly, don’t pretend you wrote a book about LOST if you really wrote a book about how you think everyone should follow your religious agenda. That’s trickery and it’s not nice. Also, it’s annoying. If you want to make friends with me and spend time with me and get to know my story and you end up sharing your story with me – which includes your religion – that’s one thing. I’m cool with that. If you want to write a book under false pretenses and tell me I’m going to hell unless I follow your instructions, that’s not so cool. I’d say that’s grounds for a beating with the Jesus Stick.

Thirdly, if something isn’t related to your religion, don’t try desperately to force it to be related. For example, I found an interesting insert in the book. It was titled Is Jack “Jesus”? Anyone who has seen this show knows that we’re all in a great deal of trouble if Jack is, indeed, Jesus. Last I checked he’s a whiney little thing hopped up on prescription painkillers hoping he’ll get into another plane crash. Oh, and his beard is making me cringe. But wait, maybe he’s “Jesus” (I’m still not sure what the quotations are all about). Want to know why he might be “Jesus”? Here’s why:

• 'He performs CPR on Charlie, bringing him back from near death.’ Um, CPR is the same as raising the dead? By my estimation that makes everyone on Grey’s Anatomy “Jesus”. And maybe everyone on ER. I don’t know as I’ve never watched that show, but I’m just guessing. Oh, and one of the guys at work here is also apparently “Jesus” because he used the AED on some guy having a heart attack. “Jesus” is everywhere.
• 'Jack leads the survivors to water, just as Jesus claimed to be the water of life.’ Seriously? All I have to do is get people water to be “Jesus”? I got D a whole water bottle last night, and I filled the pitcher in the fridge. I must be the second coming.
• ‘Jack’s last name is Shepherd; Jesus is the good shepherd’. My last name is Puff; therefore all cream puffs were made in my likeness. And cotton puffs. And Coco Puffs, while we’re at it.

The lesson to be learned here is this: If you have to stretch into the realm of complete and utter ridiculousness, you probably haven’t really made a point at all.

Lastly, your ability to create an acronym is not sufficient motivation for me to join your religion. The last chapter in this sad little book is titled: “LOST: What To Do About It”, which kind of makes me giggle. Um, what am I going to do about LOST? Duh, I’m going to watch it. What else would I do about it except maybe shut it off when it gets too annoying? But our two authors have another idea. Clearly, the only thing to do about LOST is……. join their religion! Obviously. Why didn’t I think of that? The entire chapter consists of Ways To Abuse Acronyms, by turning the word LOST into something that can get you saved. In just 4 easy steps LOST can save your soul! Yes, yours! Simply follow these instructions:

Look to Jesus
Open your past to him
Start with a prayer of commitment
Take steps to grow in Christ

It’s that easy! Now aren’t you glad you watched LOST?



So that was kind of a random, TV show/book induced rant, wasn’t it? Here’s the thing: I’ll happily find some spiritual truths in LOST. I’ll happily find some good social themes in LOST. I’ll hunt down some beautiful story telling, lessons to learn, and strategies for building relationships. I would even feel okay with looking specifically at the Christian Bible and making some comparisons: themes of faith and redemption, for example. I love it when things in our popular culture go deep enough to give us something to think about. I love it when pop culture shows us things that are beautiful and helps us deal with things that are ugly. I think it’s wonderful. But when people from the church try to pick up anything they can possibly find and slap the label “Christian” onto it so that they can feel all special because they’re participating in pop culture, it just irritates me. LOST is not about Jesus Christ. Sorry.

Now, The Chronicles of Narnia – that might be about Jesus Christ. Have a go. Write a book about how Aslan is “Jesus”. You may actually come up with something that makes sense.

But in all seriousness, ye people of the mega-churches, stop trying so hard. It’s quite annoying.

Actually, it kind of makes me want to beat you with the Jesus Stick.

The Undertaking I ~ "Tract"

I recently finished the book The Undertaking by Thomas Lynch. Lynch is both a poet and an undertaker by trade and has remarkable insight on the human condition as it applies to the living, the dead, and the living who are in the midst of dealing with the dead. There are a few different things I want to address from my reading of this book, hence the title of this blog is The Undertaking I. Part II and III will eventually follow, if I don’t completely lose my train of thought (not that that would ever happen…).

However, before I embark on all the things Mr. Lynch has brought to my attention, I want to share the beautiful ending of this book. Lynch ends the book with a short chapter on how he wants his own death to be handled. I know it sounds morbid and you might be wondering to yourself why on earth I decided that you’d be interested in it, but just hear me out. I love the way he insists that his death – and his life – be recognized as important events; that he doesn’t tell everyone not to grieve, but to do what must be done be it grieving, forgiving, remembering, forgetting. I love the way that even in his own death he recognizes that death is not about the dead – it is about the living who remain. It is dark, but it is beautiful. Dark & beautiful. Honestly, the two occur together so frequently it is often difficult for me to distinguish them. Lynch does beautiful work with the dark and the beautiful; the morbid and the practical; the living and the dead.

What I leave you with today is simply that last chapter, titled Tract. It’s a few pages long, so it may take some effort on your part. I promise you, it’s worth it.

Tract

I’d rather it be in February. Not that it will matter much to me. Not that I’m a stickler for details. But since you’re asking – February. The month I first became a father, the month my father died. Yes. Better even than November.

I want it cold. I want the gray to inhabit the air like wood does trees: as an essence not a coincidence. And the hope for springtime, gardens, romance, dulled to a stump by the winter in Michigan.

Yes, February. With the cold behind and the cold before you and the darkness stubborn at the edges of the day. And a wind to make the cold more bitter. So that ever after it might be said, “It was a sad old day we did it after all.”

And a good frosthold on the ground so that, for nights before it is dug, the sexton will have had to go up and put a fire down, under the hood that fits the space, to soften the topsoil for the backhoe’s toothy bucket.

Wake me. Let those who want to come and look. They have their reasons. You’ll have yours. And if someone says, “Doesn’t he look natural!” take no offense. They’ve got it right. For this was always in my nature. It’s in yours.

And have the clergy take their part in it. Let them take their best shot. If they’re ever going to make sense to you, now’s the time. They’re looking, same as the rest of us. The questions are more instructive than the answers. Be wary of anyone who knows what to say.

As for music, suit yourselves. I’ll be out of earshot, stone deaf. A lot can be said for pipers and tinwhistlers. But consider the difference between a funeral with a few tunes and a concert with a corpse down front. Avoid, for your own sakes, anything you’ve heard in the dentist’s office or the roller rink.

Poems might be said. I’ve had friends who were poets. Mind you, they tend to go on a bit. Especially around horizontal bodies. Sex and death are their principle studies. It is here where the services of an experienced undertaker are most appreciated. Accustomed to being personae non grata, they’ll act the worthy editor and tell the bards when it’s time to put a sock in it.

On the subject of money: you get what you pay for. Deal with someone whose instincts you trust. If anyone tells you you haven’t spent enough, tell them to go piss up a rope. Tell the same thing to anyone who says you spent too much. Tell them to go piss up a rope. It’s your money. Do what you want with it. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. You know the type who’s always saying, “When I’m dead, save your money, spend it on something really useful, do me cheaply”? I’m not one of them. Never was. I’ve always thought that funerals were useful. So do what suits you. It is yours to do. You’re entitled to wholesale on most of it.

As for guilt – it’s much overrated. Here are the facts in the case at hand: I’ve known the love of the ones who have loved me. And I’ve known that they’ve known that I’ve loved them, too. Everything else, in the end, seems irrelevant. But if guilt is the thing, forgive yourself, forgive me. And if a little upgrade in the pomp and circumstance makes you feel better, consider it money wisely spent. Compared to shrinks and pharmaceuticals, bartenders or homeopaths, geographical or ecclesiastical cures, even the priciest funeral is a bargain.


I want a mess made in the snow so that the earth looks wounded, forced open, an unwilling participant. Forego the tent. Stand openly to the weather. Get the larger equipment out of sight. It’s a distraction. But have the sexton, all dirt and indifference, remain at hand. He and the hearse driver can talk of poker or trade jokes in whispers and straight-face while the clergy tender final commendations. Those who lean on shovels and fill holes, like those who lean on custom and old prayers, are, each of them, experts in the one field.

And you should see it till the very end. Avoid the temptation of tidy leavetaking in a room, a cemetery chapel, at the foot of the alter. None of that. Don’t dodge it because of the weather. We’ve fished and watched football in worse conditions. It won’t take long. Go to the hole in the ground. Stand over it. Look into it. Wonder. And be cold. But stay until it’s over. Until it is done.

On the subject of pallbearers – my darling sons, my fierce daughter, my grandsons and granddaughters, if I’ve any. The larger muscles should be involved. The ones we use for the real burdens. If men and their muscles are better at lifting, women and theirs are better at bearing. This is a job for which both may be needed. So work together. It will lighten the load.

Look to my beloved for the best example. She has a mighty heart, a rich internal life, and powerful medicines.

After the words are finished, lower it. Leave the ropes. Toss the gray gloves in on top. Push the dirt in and be done. Watch each other’s ankles, stamp your feet in the cold, let your heads sink between your shoulders, keep looking down. That’s where what is happening is happening. And when you’re done, look up and leave. But not until you’re done.

So, if you opt for burning, stand and watch. If you cannot watch it, perhaps you should reconsider. Stand in earshot of the sizzle and the pop. Try to get a whiff of the goings on. Warm your hands to the fire. This might be a good time for a song. Bury the ashes, cinders, the bones. The bits of the box that did not burn.

Put them in something

Mark the spot.

Feed the hungry. It’s good form. Feed them well. This business works up an appetite, like going to the seaside, walking the cliff road. After that, be sober.


This is none of my business. I won’t be there. But if you’re asking, here is free advice. You know the part where everybody is always saying that you should have a party now? How the dead guy always insisted he wanted everyone to have a good time and toss back a few and laugh and be happy? I’m not one of them. I think the old teacher is right about this one. There is a time to dance. And it just may be this isn’t one of them. The dead can’t tell the living what to feel.

They used to have this year of mourning. Folks wore armbands, black clothes, played no music in the house. Black wreathes were hung at the front doors. The damaged were identified. For a full year you were allowed your grief – the dreams and sleeplessness, the sadness, the rage. The weeping and giggling in all the wrong places. The catch in your breath at the sound of the name. After a year, you would be back to normal. “Time heals” is what was said to explain this. If not, of course, you were pronounced some version of “crazy” and in need of some professional help.

Whatever’s there to feel, feel it – the riddance, the relief, the fright and freedom, the fear of forgetting, the dull ache of your own mortality. Go home in pairs. Warm to the flesh that warms you still. Get with someone you can trust with tears, with anger, and wonderment and utter silence. Get that part done – the sooner the better. The only way around these things is through them.

I know I shouldn’t be going on like this.

I’ve had this problem all my life. Directing funerals.

It’s yours to do – my funeral – not mine. The death is yours to live with once I’m dead.

So here is a coupon good for Disregard. And here is another marked My Approval. Ignore, with my blessings, whatever I’ve said beyond Love One Another.

Live Forever.


All I really wanted was a witness. To say I was. To say, daft as it still sounds, maybe I am.

To say, if they ask you, it was a sad day after all. It was a cold, gray day.

February.


Of course, any other month you’re on your own. Have no fear – you’ll know what to do. Go now, I think you are ready.

Disclaimer

*Disclaimer*

It appears as of late that my blog is basically the place where I come to do media review. Look at the last few weeks: we’ve got book reviews, movie chat, and even LOST. What happened to the old, interesting H who used to tell us all her funny stories from her everyday life? you ask. The simple answer is this: she got knocked up.

I’m currently 11 weeks pregnant with a little creature who has managed to not get implanted in some obscure part of my reproductive anatomy and whom actually has a beating little heart. Third time’s a charm, right?

What does this have to do with my blog? you ask. Everything. Apparently this little creature who we all adore so much is technically a parasite and has been sucking the life-force right out of me. The fun, spirited H you once knew is now struggling to keep her eyes open at 9 p.m. (and, hey, let’s be honest, 4 p.m., 5 p.m., 6 p.m…..) and up until last week was too busy trying to figure out if she was really going to puke or not from moment to moment to actually do / say / think anything interesting. Hence, the fun stories and acute observations have been on a bit of a hiatus. I apologize for the interruption. Rest assured as I approach my second trimester I am starting to feel slightly more human again and should be back to doing / saying / thinking interesting things at any time.

*End Disclaimer*

I Do Not Need 437 Toothpaste Choices

I went grocery shopping this weekend with D. Typically D does not come shopping with me for a variety of reasons, one of which being that our grocery bill is generally $20 higher when he does. Unfortunately, D has this inherent weakness for products that boldly proclaim they are NEW!!! or IMPROVED!!!

Example:

D: Ooooh! Can we get these?

Me: But you don’t even like pretzels.

D: Yes, but they’re NEW!!!

Me: But you don’t like them.

D: Maybe I will this time. They’re NEW!!!

Me: But they’re still pretzels.

D: (throws them in the cart)

Me: (rolls eyes) *sigh*


2 months later:


D: H, are you ever going to eat those pretzels?


So you can see why I generally do my shopping alone. Aside from this, it always takes me ½ hour longer to do the shopping with D comes along. For some time (i.e. ever since I’ve known him) I’ve tended to blame him for this. I stand at the end of the aisle, silently thinking to myself, “Seriously, how long does it take to pick out toothpaste?? Just grab one and go.” I tap my foot impatiently and I make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes, although we both know I want to.

This weekend, that all changed.

This weekend, as we stood in the toothpaste aisle for what seemed like an eternity, I looked around and realized that if you don’t normally do the grocery shopping, it certainly would take you 10 minutes to pick out toothpaste. Why? Because there are 437 varieties (my estimate). Do you want mint or cinnamon or vanilla? Or maybe children’s bubblegum flavor? Or cinna-mint (which sounds disgusting, in my opinion)? And if you want mint, do you want spearmint, wintergreen, or just plain old toothpaste-mint flavor? Do you want to fight tartar? Gingivitis? Bad breath? All of the above? Do you want to whiten your teeth while you brush or are you just trying to get in and out of the bathroom without any of your teeth falling out? And once you figure out what kind you want, do you want it in a traditional squeeze-up toothpaste package or do you want the fancy squeezable plastic bottle?

Oh, and you might need a toothbrush to go with that toothpaste, as well. Do you want the plain kind, the kind with the tongue-brusher thingy, or the kind with the colored circle in the middle of the brush that will turn white when you need to switch toothbrushes? None of those? How about the kiddie ones that light up for exactly 1 minute so that your kid keeps brushing for long enough? Then there’s always the trusty battery-operated rotating toothbrush, if you’re really hardcore.

Don’t even get me started on floss.

What’s your point? you ask. My point is this: we don’t need that much toothpaste. Period. There is not one single reason why we need an entire aisle for toothpaste aside from the fact that toothpaste makers keep trying to out-do each other for the sake of the almighty dollar. And it isn’t just toothpaste. Tampons: an entire aisle. Seriously? You can only use one at a time, you know. Cereal: an entire aisle – both sides of the aisle. Are there really that many redeeming qualities that cannot be put into one cereal? And you know what we do in these aisles? We stand there and hem and haw and complain that we can’t find what we really want. Yes, but what I really wanted was a chocolaty breakfast cereal that is multi-grain and 100% organic with little pink marshmallows that look like pigs. Guess I’ll have to settle for whatever crap they have in the cereal aisle.

Too much choice is not a healthy thing. For starters, psychologists studying the phenomenon found that when we have too many choices, it actually impairs our ability to make a decision. Hence, D’s deer-in-the-headlights look / 20 minute sabbatical in aisle 5. We simply can’t process that much at one time. But secondly, why are we that picky in the first place? Really, what is it we think this magic toothpaste is going to do? Why do we think we need 437 choices?

We are far too spoiled as a society. I don’t know this for a fact, but I’m guessing there are places in the world where there is *gasp!* no toothpaste (da da dan…. insert sound effects here). And maybe, *double gasp!* no breakfast cereal (ear-piercing scream)! Now I know I’m sounding like your mother looking down at your plate and telling you that there are children in *insert 3rd world country* who don’t even have green beans, so you’d better finish what’s on your plate. Bear with me. It’s not that I think we shouldn’t have toothpaste or breakfast cereal. It’s just that I often wish things were simpler. Yes, modern life means that we don’t die of smallpox or polio and it doesn’t take us 2 weeks to hear the news from the next town over and we can all read this blog (even if you don’t know who I am). Yes, modern life is nice, which also means that modern life can be a bit complex. But does it really have to be further complicated by the sheer number of toothpaste choices we have?

I don’t mind life being a little complex because I can better keep track of the people I love. I don’t mind life being a little complex because I have access to the authors I love. But complexity based on toothpaste profit margins? Give me a break.

Top 10 Things I Learned from LOST

Apparently, there is now a book out about what we can learn from the popular TV series LOST from the Christian perspective. This intrigues me to no end as a) a good many of the Christians I have encountered (but not all, mind you) would have run screaming from LOST about the time Kate *gasp* had sex *gasp* with Sawyer and b) the one character who seems to demonstrate a bit of faith is the one character that everyone I know seems to hate (though I refuse to back down from my Locke fan-dom). I have the book on hold at the library out of sheer curiosity and hope to get my hands on it soon.

Anywho, as much as I love this show, at times it’s too ridiculous for even me to take. In order to retain my fan-dom I must interject random sarcasm and give myself a bit of space. And so, a month and a half after everyone else was done chatting about the show for this season, I leave you with the Top 10 most interesting things I’ve learned from LOST:


10. If you give birth on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere after a major plane crash, your stomach will automatically shrink to 24 inches within days after birth and you will somehow not have any maternity clothes in your luggage – only tiny, tight tanks and cute little shorts. I know that’s what I plan to pack for all my 8-month-pregnant trips.

9. If you murder someone and then get into a plane crash, the murder charges will be dropped – as long as you helped rescue a few other people off the plane. Note to self: buy plane ticket for immediately after murder scheme and cross fingers.

8. Even if you hate your biological father with every fiber of your being, seeing his randomly disembodied spirit wandering around an island will somehow prompt you to leave your baby behind and follow him into a creepy invisible cabin in the woods. I wouldn’t follow most of the people I like into a creepy invisible cabin in the woods. But hey, that’s just me!

7. No one has to know where you are to send you food. So there’s this secret island, right? And no one can find it, right? And it’s this huge feat when the bad guys do manage to find it, right? But hey! Don’t worry about food – we have that air-shipped in.

6. Living on a creepy deserted island will keep you from ever being surprised by anything – even if no one ever tells you what the hell is going on. My personal favorite? Alex, this is your mother. And what did Alex say? Not, “WTF, I have a mother?!” Not, “Whoa, psycho, if this is my mother what have you been doing with me all these years?” Not even, “Huh?” Nope, she just blankly stares at Danielle as if it all makes sense.

5. Writing a plot line about a guy whose big brother gets him hooked on heroin and who then has a major scramble with the authorities in an airplane because he’s got the drugs before having to kick his habit due to being in a strange new world where there is no heroin (well, not for awhile, anyways) does not mean you read The Dark Tower. Really. It’s a coincidence.

4. If your child star, I don’t know, grows during 4 years of filming, simply start showing him flashed forward 3 years. Suddenly everyone says, “Of course Walt looks 17. He IS 17!”

3. Doors cannot be shut from the outside. They can only be shut from the inside. Unfortunately, the inside is also where you get trapped and drown. (Seriously, 4 steps outside that door and Charlie would still be here).

2. Being young and hot outweighs being right. It does not matter if you were right and the people on the boat are trying to kill you - if you’re not the 30-year-old lead actor that Miss Teen USA over there is tuning in to see, you’re still the bad guy. *sigh*

And the number one thing I have learned from LOST….


If you don’t like what’s going on in your little corner of the world…. move your island!

Lars and the Real Girl

Just the other week I had the opportunity to watch the film Lars and the Real Girl. For those of you who haven’t seen it and may have no idea what I’m talking about, I offer a brief synopsis: Lars and the Real Girl is about a young man named Lars (of course) who lives in the garage of the home his brother and sister-in-law live in. Lars is something of a social phobic, choosing to have limited interactions with others, or just plain avoiding other people when at all possible. An event in the life of Lars’ family triggers the need for Lars to work through some of his issues. How does Lars work through his issues? you ask. Here is how:

Lars purchases a life-sized, anatomically correct sex doll named Bianca – whom he treats as a real person.

Lars takes Bianca everywhere he goes, pretending that she is a real person. He talks to her, carries her, pushes her in a wheelchair (he explains her total lack of movement by telling his sister-in-law that she’s paralyzed), dresses her, narrarates a history for her (she used to be a missionary; she can’t have children)…. the whole nine yards.

Lars’ brother and sister-in-law are, naturally, concerned (and, basically, floored - you should see their expressions at the dinner table). They take Lars to the Dr. on the premise that Bianca ‘looks a bit pale’ (ha!) and should get checked out. The Dr. is, of course, checking Lars out instead. Her recommendation: play along with Lars and ride it out. The Dr. is convinced that Lars has created Bianca for a reason and in order for that reason to resolve itself, they have to let Lars resolve things with Bianca. Eventually, the issue does get resolved, as we can see in Lars’ resolution with Bianca and his increasing interactions with the rest of the world. However, to me this is not the amazing part. To me, the amazing part is this:

Lars’ entire community goes along with his altered reality and welcomes Bianca with open arms. Bianca brings a bottle of wine to a party; the host thanks Bianca profusely. Bianca goes to church, where she is welcomed. Bianca goes through a whole slew of interactions with the townspeople; the local hairdresser gives her a haircut (joking that she’d better get it right because it wasn’t growing back!), a girl at the mall helps Lars pick out clothes for Bianca by taking Bianca into the fitting room and helping her ‘try on’ the clothes, an older woman picks Bianca up from Lars’ home and takes her to a banquet. The list goes on. The entire community embraces Bianca as one of their own for this simple reason: they love Lars.

Think about that for a moment, and ask yourself: What would you do if someone showed up with an anatomically correct sex doll at Sunday service and introduced her to you as a real person?

Or think about this: What reaction do you think you would get if you showed up with a sex doll to one of your normal social functions and introduced her to all your friends?

I honestly don’t know the answer to either question.

I adore this film for a variety of reasons. It’s sweet, it’s funny, it has that small-town charm you can only find in rural areas I never frequent. But mostly, it’s full of love. I’ve been thinking about the film for the last couple of weeks and the thing that stands out to me the most is this: the way it makes me wish that everyone could know what it’s like to be loved the way that Lars is loved. I wish I could assume that if I walked into church with a life-sized doll, no one would do anything but love me. I wish I could assume that if I took a life-sized doll shopping, someone would help me without giving me a funny look.

I wish I could assume that if my best friend showed up with a life-sized sex doll, I would do nothing but love her.

I know, I know, carrying around a life-sized sex doll is weird. But in a lot of places, a lot of things are considered weird. Where I used to go to church, going to a gay bar was weird. In my college theatre department, practicing religion was weird. I guess the point I’m trying to make is that Lars is nothing more than another kind of weird. Lars is nothing more than Jesus’ tax collectors and prostitutes. He’s just as weird to his community as I was to my church and to the theatre department. Life-sized sex dolls are just one more thing with the power to marginalize (did I seriously just write that?). But instead of being rejected by the majority and accepted by one man and his disciples – instead of being accepted by 6 people and hearing the rest of the church’s rather unsavory opinion on his nightlife/evangelism habits – Lars was accepted, embraced, and wholly loved by his entire community – his ENTIRE community. I think that is beautiful. And I hope, one day, we all know what it is to be loved like that.

A Woeful Tale of Sock Tragedy

So, this weekend I was doing laundry. There's nothing new about this. I do laundry every weekend. I do my laundry and D's laundry, simply because I can't stand the way he does laundry. His laundry method looks like this:

1. Sort laundry into 5-6 piles that make absolutely no sense (We're not talking lights and darks here, people. I have no idea what he's doing).
2. Throw said piles on the bathroom floor.
3. Remember to wash and dry maybe 1 pile per day. Maybe 1 pile per day. Or maybe not.
4. Continue the cyle. Lather, rinse, repeat, etc, etc, etc.

The problem with this laundry method is that it guarantees that at any given time there will be at least 1 pile of laundry on my bathroom floor - more often it's like 3 or 4. Since I simply can't stand random, indiscernable piles of laundry on my bathroom floor all the time, I do the laundry. This is simply how it works at our house.

As I was saying, this weekend I did the laundry. The load of laundry that I absolutely loathe and despise with every fiber of my being is the whites. Why? you ask. I will tell you. I absolutely loathe and despise the white load of laundry because, aside from some athletic socks, I think I own approximately three white clothing items. Three. And two of them are underwear. That's it, folks. I just don't look good in white. D, on the other hand, has enough white undershirts to clothe a third world country. D also refuses to fold said undershirts, so I always get stuck folding away for a good 20 minutes with these stupid shirts that I don't even get to wear. I hate doing the whites because it's a whole lot of work with almost zero benefit to my wardrobe. There, I've said it. Yes, it's very selfish. No, it's not a nice, wifely attitude. But guess what. I hate those f---ing shirts all the same.

So this weekend I gave D a huge pile of white undershirts, nicely folded, to put away. I stuck all his socks on top so he would put them away as well. Yes, I am a nice wife. No, I will not come over and do your laundry. As D was putting his socks away, he found one of my socks. Apparently this unfortunate, rogue sock had somehow made it into D's sock pile and was now in danger of living in one of D's drawers where it would never find a mate or a community of socks with similar values and would forced to live in seclusion at the bottom of the drawer for the rest of it's days. Just as the sock was about to make it's successful entry back into it's community of athletic socks that live in the bottom middle drawer of my dresser, the unthinkable happened:

D declared to me that he had found a traitor amongst his socks - a spy that must pay with it's life for attempting to uncover the secrets of sock organization and correct sock matching within his drawer. I pleaded on behalf of my sock, but to no avail. D left the room, came back with a pair of scissors, held the sock up in front of my face, and cut it in half.

Yes, he cut my sock in half.

For no apparent reason. Except, of course, sock espionage.

This is my reward for folding an army's worth of those damn undershirts.