 |
| Where's the "Ice, Ice Baby" when you need it? |
With an inferno of this summer's caliber, the following was only a matter of time:
 |
| Frosty's relatives killed in a senseless melting--film at eleven. |
01 July 2012
"We're Havin' a Heat Wave..."
The heatwave through the mid-US continues, as evidenced by my car's thermostat today. If this continues, I'm gonna need to find my handbasket...
With an inferno of this summer's caliber, the following was only a matter of time:
Keep cool and safe, everybody!
With an inferno of this summer's caliber, the following was only a matter of time:
"We're Havin' a Heat Wave..."
The heatwave through the mid-US continues, as evidenced by my car's thermostat today. If this continues, I'm gonna need to find my handbasket...
With an inferno of this summer's caliber, the following was only a matter of time:
Keep cool and safe, everybody!
|
| Where's the "Ice, Ice Baby" when you need it? |
With an inferno of this summer's caliber, the following was only a matter of time:
|
| Frosty's relatives killed in a senseless melting--film at eleven. |
30 June 2012
Ode to a Choral Diva
Even though it's been a couple of weeks since my choral group has sung together, for some random reason this little ditty started playing in my head earlier today. It's in honor of one of the sopranos in our group. I've not had much interaction with her personally, simply because I usually sit in the back row while she sits in the front row; also, I'm still getting to know people and names. So up till now, she hasn't bothered me much one way or the other. This summer, however, we've been working on more fun pieces for an annual fundraiser. So instead of the usual classical sorts of pieces that we perform in the spring and fall, we're doing a show with all old-school Las Vegas-themed songs. So it should be fun and entertaining, right? Well, you'd think. But ever since we started rehearsing, the soprano in question has felt the need to "correct" someone on something every. single. week. I'll give the woman props; she does have a nice-enough voice and clearly knows what she's doing most of the time. But that doesn't make her the director, nor does it make her the music police, which is how she's been acting all summer. Week after week I've watched her lean over to "instruct" her neighbors on what they need to fix as though that were somehow her job. Every week I've watched her get tense and pissy when things aren't perfect, in spite of the fact that it's still a month or two from actual performances. Of course we want to improve week by week, but these are still rehearsals, for crying out loud. The point of rehearsals is to learn and to improve, particularly early on, not to be Mormon Tabernacle Choir-ready seconds after sight-reading a new piece.
Besides, this is not a chamber ensemble, or even an audition choir. There is a wide range of abilities and experience in this group, and it is unreasonable to expect everyone to be at the same level of competence at the same time. It simply is not the woman's place to be telling everyone else what to do or what not to do, particularly when she herself is not above making the occasional mistake. Needless to say, I particularly enjoyed watching her get busted a week or two ago when she was whining that the sopranos were all sharp. She felt the need to tell us so by waving her upturned thump in the air so we'd all know how egregiously we were offending her sense of pitch. The director called her on it, telling her that he knew we were sharp, but that it was also his job to tell us so. SCORE!! (Didn't stop her from whining that we were hurting her ears, but whatevs.)
So, in honor of our resident diva-wannabe, I offer the following little send-up:
(Sung to the tune of "I've Been Working on the Railroad")
I've been sitting near a Diva,
Every Tuesday night.
I've been sitting near a Diva
Who thinks she is always right.
Every week she corrects someone;
And she tells them what they did "wrong."
Every week she acts all snotty
While we sing our songs.
Diva rolls her eyes,
Diva makes a face,
Diva acts so put upo-o-on.
Diva says you're sharp,
Diva says you're flat,
Diva says you held too long.
Someone thinks she's God's gift to music,
Someone thinks Director needs he-e-e-elp.
Someone doesn't know it's rehearsal,
Someone needs a Val-i-um.
Singin' "Oh, please, get over yourself,
Please take the stick...out of your backside.
Please...get..over yourself,
'Cuz you're not perfect, either."
Besides, this is not a chamber ensemble, or even an audition choir. There is a wide range of abilities and experience in this group, and it is unreasonable to expect everyone to be at the same level of competence at the same time. It simply is not the woman's place to be telling everyone else what to do or what not to do, particularly when she herself is not above making the occasional mistake. Needless to say, I particularly enjoyed watching her get busted a week or two ago when she was whining that the sopranos were all sharp. She felt the need to tell us so by waving her upturned thump in the air so we'd all know how egregiously we were offending her sense of pitch. The director called her on it, telling her that he knew we were sharp, but that it was also his job to tell us so. SCORE!! (Didn't stop her from whining that we were hurting her ears, but whatevs.)
So, in honor of our resident diva-wannabe, I offer the following little send-up:
(Sung to the tune of "I've Been Working on the Railroad")
I've been sitting near a Diva,
Every Tuesday night.
I've been sitting near a Diva
Who thinks she is always right.
Every week she corrects someone;
And she tells them what they did "wrong."
Every week she acts all snotty
While we sing our songs.
Diva rolls her eyes,
Diva makes a face,
Diva acts so put upo-o-on.
Diva says you're sharp,
Diva says you're flat,
Diva says you held too long.
Someone thinks she's God's gift to music,
Someone thinks Director needs he-e-e-elp.
Someone doesn't know it's rehearsal,
Someone needs a Val-i-um.
Singin' "Oh, please, get over yourself,
Please take the stick...out of your backside.
Please...get..over yourself,
'Cuz you're not perfect, either."
Ode to a Choral Diva
Even though it's been a couple of weeks since my choral group has sung together, for some random reason this little ditty started playing in my head earlier today. It's in honor of one of the sopranos in our group. I've not had much interaction with her personally, simply because I usually sit in the back row while she sits in the front row; also, I'm still getting to know people and names. So up till now, she hasn't bothered me much one way or the other. This summer, however, we've been working on more fun pieces for an annual fundraiser. So instead of the usual classical sorts of pieces that we perform in the spring and fall, we're doing a show with all old-school Las Vegas-themed songs. So it should be fun and entertaining, right? Well, you'd think. But ever since we started rehearsing, the soprano in question has felt the need to "correct" someone on something every. single. week. I'll give the woman props; she does have a nice-enough voice and clearly knows what she's doing most of the time. But that doesn't make her the director, nor does it make her the music police, which is how she's been acting all summer. Week after week I've watched her lean over to "instruct" her neighbors on what they need to fix as though that were somehow her job. Every week I've watched her get tense and pissy when things aren't perfect, in spite of the fact that it's still a month or two from actual performances. Of course we want to improve week by week, but these are still rehearsals, for crying out loud. The point of rehearsals is to learn and to improve, particularly early on, not to be Mormon Tabernacle Choir-ready seconds after sight-reading a new piece.
Besides, this is not a chamber ensemble, or even an audition choir. There is a wide range of abilities and experience in this group, and it is unreasonable to expect everyone to be at the same level of competence at the same time. It simply is not the woman's place to be telling everyone else what to do or what not to do, particularly when she herself is not above making the occasional mistake. Needless to say, I particularly enjoyed watching her get busted a week or two ago when she was whining that the sopranos were all sharp. She felt the need to tell us so by waving her upturned thump in the air so we'd all know how egregiously we were offending her sense of pitch. The director called her on it, telling her that he knew we were sharp, but that it was also his job to tell us so. SCORE!! (Didn't stop her from whining that we were hurting her ears, but whatevs.)
So, in honor of our resident diva-wannabe, I offer the following little send-up:
(Sung to the tune of "I've Been Working on the Railroad")
I've been sitting near a Diva,
Every Tuesday night.
I've been sitting near a Diva
Who thinks she is always right.
Every week she corrects someone;
And she tells them what they did "wrong."
Every week she acts all snotty
While we sing our songs.
Diva rolls her eyes,
Diva makes a face,
Diva acts so put upo-o-on.
Diva says you're sharp,
Diva says you're flat,
Diva says you held too long.
Someone thinks she's God's gift to music,
Someone thinks Director needs he-e-e-elp.
Someone doesn't know it's rehearsal,
Someone needs a Val-i-um.
Singin' "Oh, please, get over yourself,
Please take the stick...out of your backside.
Please...get..over yourself,
'Cuz you're not perfect, either."
Besides, this is not a chamber ensemble, or even an audition choir. There is a wide range of abilities and experience in this group, and it is unreasonable to expect everyone to be at the same level of competence at the same time. It simply is not the woman's place to be telling everyone else what to do or what not to do, particularly when she herself is not above making the occasional mistake. Needless to say, I particularly enjoyed watching her get busted a week or two ago when she was whining that the sopranos were all sharp. She felt the need to tell us so by waving her upturned thump in the air so we'd all know how egregiously we were offending her sense of pitch. The director called her on it, telling her that he knew we were sharp, but that it was also his job to tell us so. SCORE!! (Didn't stop her from whining that we were hurting her ears, but whatevs.)
So, in honor of our resident diva-wannabe, I offer the following little send-up:
(Sung to the tune of "I've Been Working on the Railroad")
I've been sitting near a Diva,
Every Tuesday night.
I've been sitting near a Diva
Who thinks she is always right.
Every week she corrects someone;
And she tells them what they did "wrong."
Every week she acts all snotty
While we sing our songs.
Diva rolls her eyes,
Diva makes a face,
Diva acts so put upo-o-on.
Diva says you're sharp,
Diva says you're flat,
Diva says you held too long.
Someone thinks she's God's gift to music,
Someone thinks Director needs he-e-e-elp.
Someone doesn't know it's rehearsal,
Someone needs a Val-i-um.
Singin' "Oh, please, get over yourself,
Please take the stick...out of your backside.
Please...get..over yourself,
'Cuz you're not perfect, either."
20 May 2012
Ankle Pants and Senioritis
A couple of weekends ago, my choral society had its spring concert, featuring the a work called "Letters from War" by Paul Moravec and John Rutter's "Mass of the Children." The concert itself went splendidly, thanks primarily to the indefatigable efforts of our both our director and accompanist (who was also the director of the fabulous children's choir which performed). The soloists were particularly outstanding, as was the children's choir, and the concert went extremely well. There is nothing like beautiful music to make the heart swell and the spirit soar!
I also had the fortune to learn from some of my mistakes at the previous concert; for starters, I knew where the concert hall was this time, so I didn't spend 15-20 minutes wandering lost around campus, in part because no one had told me that the name of the music building was the same as that of the concert hall. I also brilliantly chose not to put on my concert attire till after the run-through because standing for two hours under stage lights in all-black clothing? Not the best idea. Instead, this spring I wore flip-flops and regular clothes and passed the rehearsal quite comfortably, bar all the standing in a confined area right next to the edge of the top riser.
After the run-through, I stared in fascination at the mitten-shaped harp cover (it's Michigan!), then changed clothes and grabbed one of the sack dinners. Okay, so I clearly didn't learn everything since I promptly got sesame seeds and Harvest Cheese Sun Chip dust all over my concert clothes. Note to self: change AFTER eating next time. In spite of that small faux pas, I got through the concert without falling off the risers and breaking anything new (thank heaven for small favors), though I was exhausted after standing in my little square foot of space for nearly 4 hours. I get that it's cheaper to rehearse before the concert in terms of paying musicians, and I don't even mind because it gave me a chance to get all my musical brain farts out ahead of time so I didn't repeat them during the concert; I just wish we could sit for the rehearsal because that's a lot of freakin' standing around.
Anyway, though the concert was great and the music transcendent, in typical Ginger-style things didn't get "interesting" until after the program was over. Once we'd finished, I went to chat with a friend who'd come, then I went to grab my things and head out. I told the hubs I wanted ice cream and so we agreed to meet at Dairy Queen. As soon as I got to the car I immediately stripped off my knee-high hose and black shoes and put my flip-flops back on. Blessed relief! I looked around and saw that the parking garage was largely deserted, so I decided to change out of my sweaty clothes there as well. In my mind it seemed like a good idea; I figured I'd pull up my pants, which would be camouflaged by my long black skirt, then I could fasten them and slip the skirt off.
Didn't quite work out that way, needless to say.
I successfully got the pants over each flip-flop and was in the process of trying to pull them up under my skirt, which was not going quite as smoothly as I'd envisioned, when I heard someone a car's door locks unclick behind me. So there I am, standing beside my van's open side door in the parking garage, with my skirt pulled half up and pants around my ankles. No doubt it looked like I was trying to take a whiz (or worse).
I grabbed the front of my pants and pulled them up to my knees. I stood there, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It's kind of hard to be discreet when you know someone is in a car behind you trying to figure out what the hell the psycho woman across the parking garage is doing. I settled for leaning in the van and grabbing the rest of my clothes, which I threw in the front seat. I then slammed shut the side door and proceeded to climb into the driver's seat. Or, more accurately, I tried to climb into the driver's seat, which was considerably more challenging with my pants around my ankles. I finally managed to hoist my heinie into the seat and swing my be-panted ankles ("pants on the ground, pants on the ground--looking like a FOOL wit your pants on the ground!!") onto the floor board. I then spent the next five minutes trying to get my pants up and fastened under my skirt, using the Weeble Wobble method of yanking first one side a couple of inches then switching cheeks and working up the other side a couple of inches because I was too hampered by the skirt simply to hoist the pants straight up.
Once I got the pants maneuvered into position, I tried to fasten them, but had difficulty. Because of the skirt and the way I'd pulled them up, they were angled oddly high in front. I finally got them fastened, looking like nothing so much as an 80-year-old man with pants nearly up to my nipples (minus the suspenders). Rather than attempt the reverse operation with my skirt, I pulled it straight up and over my head and threw it into the back seat of my van. Success!
So there I sat with my wedgie and wearing my khaki old-man pants with a black shirt and pearls. Yup. I gave up on changing my shirt because there were still people in sight on the back dock of the concert hall, so I tossed the rest of the clothes aside and decided to head towards Dairy Queen. Now for both concerts I've not had too much difficulty actually getting to campus and the vicinity of the concert hall, but both times I've had a much harder time finding my way out of the confusing twists and turns on campus, because you can't get out the same way you go in. So I drove around and found my way out eventually, but then couldn't figure out how to get back to the main drag so I could find the Dairy Queen. I ended up getting rather lost, no thanks to the TomTom app on my phone, which had recently been updated and which decided I needed to click through several licensing screens and such before allowing me to use it. I finally had to pull off the road, turning around in the gravel parking lot of some tiny church on a hill and parking till I could click through all the stupid TomTom nonsense till I could access the program and find my way out.
I turned up at the Dairy Queen some 20 minutes after the hubs, who was sitting in his little Miata and watching all the co-eds infesting the parking lot and front of the DQ. Since I have not yet been to this particular Dairy Queen, I was unaware that it was primarily a walk-up and that they didn't have indoor seating. After standing for 4+ hours, the last thing I wanted to do was fight through the crowd of perfect-looking Southern college students in my old-man pants and incongruous pearls to suck down ice cream while being judged. Um, no thanks. I decided that we should go to Baskin Robbins instead, and took off around the corner. I got there and parked next to some awesome-looking classic cars in the parking lot, one of which was a spectacular teal color. While I waited for the hubs to arrive, I was able to get my pants re-situated into a more comfortable position.
Once the hubs arrived we went into Baskin Robbins, but nothing really sounded good. I made some comment about a root beer float and the guy waiting on us said, "Oh, you want a root beer float??" I told him yeah, then he promptly informed me they couldn't do that. Indian-giver. We negotiated a few more times and I finally ended up with a mint chocolate chip shake, but I told him to put whipped cream on it because it had been one of those evenings and he owed me since he reneged on my float. First the guy rang me up for 9.65, but then he must have felt bad because he punched a few more keys and then told me "It's $8.74--if anyone asks, you're a senior."
DUDE.
Oh, no, you did NOT just say that.
Seriously, Dude, I'll pay the extra dollar. I don't care how bad you feel, don't be announcing to everyone in here that I am a SENIOR. For the love of God, I'm only 47!!
I do appreciate the guy's efforts to try to make me feel better, but that was probably not the best way to accomplish it. I paid my senior bill, the group with all the classic cars got up and drove away. Bye, cool cars! Then we found a table and say. As we ate our treats, it occurred to me that I was sitting in the middle of a Baskin Robbin's at 10 pm at night wearing a black concert shirt and pearls...I could almost hear Chandler's voice in my head saying "Could you BE any more 'Designing Women?'" Well, probably I could, because I sincerely doubt any of the Designing Women would ever be caught in a parking garage with their pants around their ankles. First this, then my naked laundry time with the water thief.
Clearly I cannot be trusted with clothes. Pretty ironic for a seamstress, no?
I also had the fortune to learn from some of my mistakes at the previous concert; for starters, I knew where the concert hall was this time, so I didn't spend 15-20 minutes wandering lost around campus, in part because no one had told me that the name of the music building was the same as that of the concert hall. I also brilliantly chose not to put on my concert attire till after the run-through because standing for two hours under stage lights in all-black clothing? Not the best idea. Instead, this spring I wore flip-flops and regular clothes and passed the rehearsal quite comfortably, bar all the standing in a confined area right next to the edge of the top riser.
After the run-through, I stared in fascination at the mitten-shaped harp cover (it's Michigan!), then changed clothes and grabbed one of the sack dinners. Okay, so I clearly didn't learn everything since I promptly got sesame seeds and Harvest Cheese Sun Chip dust all over my concert clothes. Note to self: change AFTER eating next time. In spite of that small faux pas, I got through the concert without falling off the risers and breaking anything new (thank heaven for small favors), though I was exhausted after standing in my little square foot of space for nearly 4 hours. I get that it's cheaper to rehearse before the concert in terms of paying musicians, and I don't even mind because it gave me a chance to get all my musical brain farts out ahead of time so I didn't repeat them during the concert; I just wish we could sit for the rehearsal because that's a lot of freakin' standing around.
Anyway, though the concert was great and the music transcendent, in typical Ginger-style things didn't get "interesting" until after the program was over. Once we'd finished, I went to chat with a friend who'd come, then I went to grab my things and head out. I told the hubs I wanted ice cream and so we agreed to meet at Dairy Queen. As soon as I got to the car I immediately stripped off my knee-high hose and black shoes and put my flip-flops back on. Blessed relief! I looked around and saw that the parking garage was largely deserted, so I decided to change out of my sweaty clothes there as well. In my mind it seemed like a good idea; I figured I'd pull up my pants, which would be camouflaged by my long black skirt, then I could fasten them and slip the skirt off.
Didn't quite work out that way, needless to say.
I successfully got the pants over each flip-flop and was in the process of trying to pull them up under my skirt, which was not going quite as smoothly as I'd envisioned, when I heard someone a car's door locks unclick behind me. So there I am, standing beside my van's open side door in the parking garage, with my skirt pulled half up and pants around my ankles. No doubt it looked like I was trying to take a whiz (or worse).
I grabbed the front of my pants and pulled them up to my knees. I stood there, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It's kind of hard to be discreet when you know someone is in a car behind you trying to figure out what the hell the psycho woman across the parking garage is doing. I settled for leaning in the van and grabbing the rest of my clothes, which I threw in the front seat. I then slammed shut the side door and proceeded to climb into the driver's seat. Or, more accurately, I tried to climb into the driver's seat, which was considerably more challenging with my pants around my ankles. I finally managed to hoist my heinie into the seat and swing my be-panted ankles ("pants on the ground, pants on the ground--looking like a FOOL wit your pants on the ground!!") onto the floor board. I then spent the next five minutes trying to get my pants up and fastened under my skirt, using the Weeble Wobble method of yanking first one side a couple of inches then switching cheeks and working up the other side a couple of inches because I was too hampered by the skirt simply to hoist the pants straight up.
Once I got the pants maneuvered into position, I tried to fasten them, but had difficulty. Because of the skirt and the way I'd pulled them up, they were angled oddly high in front. I finally got them fastened, looking like nothing so much as an 80-year-old man with pants nearly up to my nipples (minus the suspenders). Rather than attempt the reverse operation with my skirt, I pulled it straight up and over my head and threw it into the back seat of my van. Success!
So there I sat with my wedgie and wearing my khaki old-man pants with a black shirt and pearls. Yup. I gave up on changing my shirt because there were still people in sight on the back dock of the concert hall, so I tossed the rest of the clothes aside and decided to head towards Dairy Queen. Now for both concerts I've not had too much difficulty actually getting to campus and the vicinity of the concert hall, but both times I've had a much harder time finding my way out of the confusing twists and turns on campus, because you can't get out the same way you go in. So I drove around and found my way out eventually, but then couldn't figure out how to get back to the main drag so I could find the Dairy Queen. I ended up getting rather lost, no thanks to the TomTom app on my phone, which had recently been updated and which decided I needed to click through several licensing screens and such before allowing me to use it. I finally had to pull off the road, turning around in the gravel parking lot of some tiny church on a hill and parking till I could click through all the stupid TomTom nonsense till I could access the program and find my way out.
I turned up at the Dairy Queen some 20 minutes after the hubs, who was sitting in his little Miata and watching all the co-eds infesting the parking lot and front of the DQ. Since I have not yet been to this particular Dairy Queen, I was unaware that it was primarily a walk-up and that they didn't have indoor seating. After standing for 4+ hours, the last thing I wanted to do was fight through the crowd of perfect-looking Southern college students in my old-man pants and incongruous pearls to suck down ice cream while being judged. Um, no thanks. I decided that we should go to Baskin Robbins instead, and took off around the corner. I got there and parked next to some awesome-looking classic cars in the parking lot, one of which was a spectacular teal color. While I waited for the hubs to arrive, I was able to get my pants re-situated into a more comfortable position.
Once the hubs arrived we went into Baskin Robbins, but nothing really sounded good. I made some comment about a root beer float and the guy waiting on us said, "Oh, you want a root beer float??" I told him yeah, then he promptly informed me they couldn't do that. Indian-giver. We negotiated a few more times and I finally ended up with a mint chocolate chip shake, but I told him to put whipped cream on it because it had been one of those evenings and he owed me since he reneged on my float. First the guy rang me up for 9.65, but then he must have felt bad because he punched a few more keys and then told me "It's $8.74--if anyone asks, you're a senior."
DUDE.
Oh, no, you did NOT just say that.
Seriously, Dude, I'll pay the extra dollar. I don't care how bad you feel, don't be announcing to everyone in here that I am a SENIOR. For the love of God, I'm only 47!!
 | |
| Check out the order number...told you calling me a "senior" was evil! |
Clearly I cannot be trusted with clothes. Pretty ironic for a seamstress, no?
Ankle Pants and Senioritis
A couple of weekends ago, my choral society had its spring concert, featuring the a work called "Letters from War" by Paul Moravec and John Rutter's "Mass of the Children." The concert itself went splendidly, thanks primarily to the indefatigable efforts of our both our director and accompanist (who was also the director of the fabulous children's choir which performed). The soloists were particularly outstanding, as was the children's choir, and the concert went extremely well. There is nothing like beautiful music to make the heart swell and the spirit soar!
I also had the fortune to learn from some of my mistakes at the previous concert; for starters, I knew where the concert hall was this time, so I didn't spend 15-20 minutes wandering lost around campus, in part because no one had told me that the name of the music building was the same as that of the concert hall. I also brilliantly chose not to put on my concert attire till after the run-through because standing for two hours under stage lights in all-black clothing? Not the best idea. Instead, this spring I wore flip-flops and regular clothes and passed the rehearsal quite comfortably, bar all the standing in a confined area right next to the edge of the top riser.
After the run-through, I stared in fascination at the mitten-shaped harp cover (it's Michigan!), then changed clothes and grabbed one of the sack dinners. Okay, so I clearly didn't learn everything since I promptly got sesame seeds and Harvest Cheese Sun Chip dust all over my concert clothes. Note to self: change AFTER eating next time. In spite of that small faux pas, I got through the concert without falling off the risers and breaking anything new (thank heaven for small favors), though I was exhausted after standing in my little square foot of space for nearly 4 hours. I get that it's cheaper to rehearse before the concert in terms of paying musicians, and I don't even mind because it gave me a chance to get all my musical brain farts out ahead of time so I didn't repeat them during the concert; I just wish we could sit for the rehearsal because that's a lot of freakin' standing around.
Anyway, though the concert was great and the music transcendent, in typical Ginger-style things didn't get "interesting" until after the program was over. Once we'd finished, I went to chat with a friend who'd come, then I went to grab my things and head out. I told the hubs I wanted ice cream and so we agreed to meet at Dairy Queen. As soon as I got to the car I immediately stripped off my knee-high hose and black shoes and put my flip-flops back on. Blessed relief! I looked around and saw that the parking garage was largely deserted, so I decided to change out of my sweaty clothes there as well. In my mind it seemed like a good idea; I figured I'd pull up my pants, which would be camouflaged by my long black skirt, then I could fasten them and slip the skirt off.
Didn't quite work out that way, needless to say.
I successfully got the pants over each flip-flop and was in the process of trying to pull them up under my skirt, which was not going quite as smoothly as I'd envisioned, when I heard someone a car's door locks unclick behind me. So there I am, standing beside my van's open side door in the parking garage, with my skirt pulled half up and pants around my ankles. No doubt it looked like I was trying to take a whiz (or worse).
I grabbed the front of my pants and pulled them up to my knees. I stood there, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It's kind of hard to be discreet when you know someone is in a car behind you trying to figure out what the hell the psycho woman across the parking garage is doing. I settled for leaning in the van and grabbing the rest of my clothes, which I threw in the front seat. I then slammed shut the side door and proceeded to climb into the driver's seat. Or, more accurately, I tried to climb into the driver's seat, which was considerably more challenging with my pants around my ankles. I finally managed to hoist my heinie into the seat and swing my be-panted ankles ("pants on the ground, pants on the ground--looking like a FOOL wit your pants on the ground!!") onto the floor board. I then spent the next five minutes trying to get my pants up and fastened under my skirt, using the Weeble Wobble method of yanking first one side a couple of inches then switching cheeks and working up the other side a couple of inches because I was too hampered by the skirt simply to hoist the pants straight up.
Once I got the pants maneuvered into position, I tried to fasten them, but had difficulty. Because of the skirt and the way I'd pulled them up, they were angled oddly high in front. I finally got them fastened, looking like nothing so much as an 80-year-old man with pants nearly up to my nipples (minus the suspenders). Rather than attempt the reverse operation with my skirt, I pulled it straight up and over my head and threw it into the back seat of my van. Success!
So there I sat with my wedgie and wearing my khaki old-man pants with a black shirt and pearls. Yup. I gave up on changing my shirt because there were still people in sight on the back dock of the concert hall, so I tossed the rest of the clothes aside and decided to head towards Dairy Queen. Now for both concerts I've not had too much difficulty actually getting to campus and the vicinity of the concert hall, but both times I've had a much harder time finding my way out of the confusing twists and turns on campus, because you can't get out the same way you go in. So I drove around and found my way out eventually, but then couldn't figure out how to get back to the main drag so I could find the Dairy Queen. I ended up getting rather lost, no thanks to the TomTom app on my phone, which had recently been updated and which decided I needed to click through several licensing screens and such before allowing me to use it. I finally had to pull off the road, turning around in the gravel parking lot of some tiny church on a hill and parking till I could click through all the stupid TomTom nonsense till I could access the program and find my way out.
I turned up at the Dairy Queen some 20 minutes after the hubs, who was sitting in his little Miata and watching all the co-eds infesting the parking lot and front of the DQ. Since I have not yet been to this particular Dairy Queen, I was unaware that it was primarily a walk-up and that they didn't have indoor seating. After standing for 4+ hours, the last thing I wanted to do was fight through the crowd of perfect-looking Southern college students in my old-man pants and incongruous pearls to suck down ice cream while being judged. Um, no thanks. I decided that we should go to Baskin Robbins instead, and took off around the corner. I got there and parked next to some awesome-looking classic cars in the parking lot, one of which was a spectacular teal color. While I waited for the hubs to arrive, I was able to get my pants re-situated into a more comfortable position.
Once the hubs arrived we went into Baskin Robbins, but nothing really sounded good. I made some comment about a root beer float and the guy waiting on us said, "Oh, you want a root beer float??" I told him yeah, then he promptly informed me they couldn't do that. Indian-giver. We negotiated a few more times and I finally ended up with a mint chocolate chip shake, but I told him to put whipped cream on it because it had been one of those evenings and he owed me since he reneged on my float. First the guy rang me up for 9.65, but then he must have felt bad because he punched a few more keys and then told me "It's $8.74--if anyone asks, you're a senior."
DUDE.
Oh, no, you did NOT just say that.
Seriously, Dude, I'll pay the extra dollar. I don't care how bad you feel, don't be announcing to everyone in here that I am a SENIOR. For the love of God, I'm only 47!!
I do appreciate the guy's efforts to try to make me feel better, but that was probably not the best way to accomplish it. I paid my senior bill, the group with all the classic cars got up and drove away. Bye, cool cars! Then we found a table and say. As we ate our treats, it occurred to me that I was sitting in the middle of a Baskin Robbin's at 10 pm at night wearing a black concert shirt and pearls...I could almost hear Chandler's voice in my head saying "Could you BE any more 'Designing Women?'" Well, probably I could, because I sincerely doubt any of the Designing Women would ever be caught in a parking garage with their pants around their ankles. First this, then my naked laundry time with the water thief.
Clearly I cannot be trusted with clothes. Pretty ironic for a seamstress, no?
I also had the fortune to learn from some of my mistakes at the previous concert; for starters, I knew where the concert hall was this time, so I didn't spend 15-20 minutes wandering lost around campus, in part because no one had told me that the name of the music building was the same as that of the concert hall. I also brilliantly chose not to put on my concert attire till after the run-through because standing for two hours under stage lights in all-black clothing? Not the best idea. Instead, this spring I wore flip-flops and regular clothes and passed the rehearsal quite comfortably, bar all the standing in a confined area right next to the edge of the top riser.
After the run-through, I stared in fascination at the mitten-shaped harp cover (it's Michigan!), then changed clothes and grabbed one of the sack dinners. Okay, so I clearly didn't learn everything since I promptly got sesame seeds and Harvest Cheese Sun Chip dust all over my concert clothes. Note to self: change AFTER eating next time. In spite of that small faux pas, I got through the concert without falling off the risers and breaking anything new (thank heaven for small favors), though I was exhausted after standing in my little square foot of space for nearly 4 hours. I get that it's cheaper to rehearse before the concert in terms of paying musicians, and I don't even mind because it gave me a chance to get all my musical brain farts out ahead of time so I didn't repeat them during the concert; I just wish we could sit for the rehearsal because that's a lot of freakin' standing around.
Anyway, though the concert was great and the music transcendent, in typical Ginger-style things didn't get "interesting" until after the program was over. Once we'd finished, I went to chat with a friend who'd come, then I went to grab my things and head out. I told the hubs I wanted ice cream and so we agreed to meet at Dairy Queen. As soon as I got to the car I immediately stripped off my knee-high hose and black shoes and put my flip-flops back on. Blessed relief! I looked around and saw that the parking garage was largely deserted, so I decided to change out of my sweaty clothes there as well. In my mind it seemed like a good idea; I figured I'd pull up my pants, which would be camouflaged by my long black skirt, then I could fasten them and slip the skirt off.
Didn't quite work out that way, needless to say.
I successfully got the pants over each flip-flop and was in the process of trying to pull them up under my skirt, which was not going quite as smoothly as I'd envisioned, when I heard someone a car's door locks unclick behind me. So there I am, standing beside my van's open side door in the parking garage, with my skirt pulled half up and pants around my ankles. No doubt it looked like I was trying to take a whiz (or worse).
I grabbed the front of my pants and pulled them up to my knees. I stood there, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It's kind of hard to be discreet when you know someone is in a car behind you trying to figure out what the hell the psycho woman across the parking garage is doing. I settled for leaning in the van and grabbing the rest of my clothes, which I threw in the front seat. I then slammed shut the side door and proceeded to climb into the driver's seat. Or, more accurately, I tried to climb into the driver's seat, which was considerably more challenging with my pants around my ankles. I finally managed to hoist my heinie into the seat and swing my be-panted ankles ("pants on the ground, pants on the ground--looking like a FOOL wit your pants on the ground!!") onto the floor board. I then spent the next five minutes trying to get my pants up and fastened under my skirt, using the Weeble Wobble method of yanking first one side a couple of inches then switching cheeks and working up the other side a couple of inches because I was too hampered by the skirt simply to hoist the pants straight up.
Once I got the pants maneuvered into position, I tried to fasten them, but had difficulty. Because of the skirt and the way I'd pulled them up, they were angled oddly high in front. I finally got them fastened, looking like nothing so much as an 80-year-old man with pants nearly up to my nipples (minus the suspenders). Rather than attempt the reverse operation with my skirt, I pulled it straight up and over my head and threw it into the back seat of my van. Success!
So there I sat with my wedgie and wearing my khaki old-man pants with a black shirt and pearls. Yup. I gave up on changing my shirt because there were still people in sight on the back dock of the concert hall, so I tossed the rest of the clothes aside and decided to head towards Dairy Queen. Now for both concerts I've not had too much difficulty actually getting to campus and the vicinity of the concert hall, but both times I've had a much harder time finding my way out of the confusing twists and turns on campus, because you can't get out the same way you go in. So I drove around and found my way out eventually, but then couldn't figure out how to get back to the main drag so I could find the Dairy Queen. I ended up getting rather lost, no thanks to the TomTom app on my phone, which had recently been updated and which decided I needed to click through several licensing screens and such before allowing me to use it. I finally had to pull off the road, turning around in the gravel parking lot of some tiny church on a hill and parking till I could click through all the stupid TomTom nonsense till I could access the program and find my way out.
I turned up at the Dairy Queen some 20 minutes after the hubs, who was sitting in his little Miata and watching all the co-eds infesting the parking lot and front of the DQ. Since I have not yet been to this particular Dairy Queen, I was unaware that it was primarily a walk-up and that they didn't have indoor seating. After standing for 4+ hours, the last thing I wanted to do was fight through the crowd of perfect-looking Southern college students in my old-man pants and incongruous pearls to suck down ice cream while being judged. Um, no thanks. I decided that we should go to Baskin Robbins instead, and took off around the corner. I got there and parked next to some awesome-looking classic cars in the parking lot, one of which was a spectacular teal color. While I waited for the hubs to arrive, I was able to get my pants re-situated into a more comfortable position.
Once the hubs arrived we went into Baskin Robbins, but nothing really sounded good. I made some comment about a root beer float and the guy waiting on us said, "Oh, you want a root beer float??" I told him yeah, then he promptly informed me they couldn't do that. Indian-giver. We negotiated a few more times and I finally ended up with a mint chocolate chip shake, but I told him to put whipped cream on it because it had been one of those evenings and he owed me since he reneged on my float. First the guy rang me up for 9.65, but then he must have felt bad because he punched a few more keys and then told me "It's $8.74--if anyone asks, you're a senior."
DUDE.
Oh, no, you did NOT just say that.
Seriously, Dude, I'll pay the extra dollar. I don't care how bad you feel, don't be announcing to everyone in here that I am a SENIOR. For the love of God, I'm only 47!!
| |
| Check out the order number...told you calling me a "senior" was evil! |
Clearly I cannot be trusted with clothes. Pretty ironic for a seamstress, no?
Protest March
Wisdom is a funny thing. Sometimes wisdom helps up to keep our heads in difficult circumstances, even when those around us are losing theirs. Sometimes, however, wisdom is finally realizing that in order to effect change in the world, one must sometimes stand up for what one believes, even when it is often unpleasant. Today was just such a day.
Actually, if I'm honest, most of this year has been like that. Instead of being some passionate protestor in my twenties when I had little to lose, I find myself, at the "ripe old age" of 47, suddenly choosing to stand up for the things I believe rather than being content to follow a path of least resistance. Rather than sitting around grumbling, as I have been wont to do in the past (and which ultimately accomplishes pretty much nothing), I am finding my voice.
For example, I have become rather vocal about TSA's abuse of civil liberties and its wild inconsistencies in procedure from airport to airport. It's not that I have a problem with trying to protect American citizens from potential terrorist threats, because I don't. It's more that I object to the methods being used to accomplish this supposed protection, and even more the general public's willingness to put up with any amount of crap from airport officials just so individuals can be sent on their way as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. And yet one airport will pass me through with enough metal to build a small Death Star while another airport will frisk me for even thinking about the metal involved in orthodontia. Things like pen knives and nail clippers are expressly prohibited, but I can bring a 12"SPIKE knitting needle, capable of piercing eyeballs and skewering hearts, with no questions asked. All my containers must be less than three ounces for fear that I might be transporting materials which could be used to create a bomb, yet it occurs to no one that the 10 mini-shampoos I have shoved in my Ziploc bag could just as easily all possess napalm or liquid plutonium which could then be combined into sufficient quantities once I'm through security. But as long as each is under 3 ounces and safely contained by a baggie, it's all good. One airport will let me transport a large boxed birthday cake, but another will confiscate a single cupcake on the grounds that the icing might be a flammable gel. One airport will scan me and recognize that the random beeping is from the rivets on my jeans, whereas another airport will frisk me TWICE and have agents shoving their hands down the front of my pants in case those same rivets are attached to a detonator. And that doesn't even begin to cover the potential exposure to radiation, which caused x-ray scanners to be banned all over Europe. The US, however, is adding more scatter scanners to airports all the time, making the old metal detectors nearly obsolete and removing the power of choice from passengers. We are being subjected daily to "unreasonable search and seizure" or at least "remarkably inconsistent search and seizure," yet most of us stand by and do nothing about it.
Perhaps more surprising to me has been the change recently in my political viewpoints, which I have assiduously avoided voicing most of my life because I believed that my political opinions weren't really anyone else's business. Were you to ask, I would probably say that I have always viewed myself as an Independent, though I've tended to lean right when voting because of my philosophical beliefs. In truth, politics have always a bit problematic for me because I grew up in a very blue collar, Democratic household, but I married a very white collar man from a very conservative, Republican household. Not surprisingly, my political opinions over the years have been fairly evenly split between the two camps. Yet in the past year, I have found myself becoming appalled by the increasingly extremist views of leading Republicans, particularly regarding the current "War on Women." It's one thing to have conservative beliefs based on one's religion, but I don't understand when it became acceptable to start using those beliefs to dictate the beliefs of others. Wasn't religious freedom one of the cornerstones of our Constitution? I have no problem with Democrats or Republicans or whomever having whatever religious views they like. I do, however, have a big problem with elected officials forcing me to be bound to laws based on the moral and philosophical views of someone other than myself. That is as un-Constitutional as much of what TSA does. No one should have the right to imprison me for having a miscarriage just because somebody conservative doesn't believe in abortion. Miscarriage and abortion are not the same. I don't believe any government has the right to force me to submit to unnecessary medical procedures just because somebody conservative doesn't believe in abortion. For the record, neither do I--that would be pretty hypocritical for someone who was adopted. I DO believe there can be extenuating circumstances which justify it, however. But that doesn't matter. Whether or not I (or anyone) believes in abortion doesn't change the fact that decisions regarding it are not the purview of the government but rather a concern only of the patient and her physician and any relevant significant others. Politicians don't ask the medical community for advice on nuclear weaponry and/or the domestic economy, so why do they feel the need not only to offer their advice on medicine, but to enact specific laws demanding that we follow that advice? Big brother indeed.
I could go on for days regarding things like contraception and equal wages and any number of other issues currently clogging the news media, but I won't, because that wasn't the point of this post. The point is to explain how things such as the above have been leading me to take a more active role in standing up for what I believe to be right. As Edmund Burke once said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." I understand that quote a lot more now than I did when I was 20; I guess that's what comes of getting older and theoretically more wise--or at least getting a little more perspective. So today, I did something. It probably won't make a difference in the grand scheme of life, but I did something. I made a gesture. I made a point. I went on my very own protest march.
Not long after we moved here, I spent several weeks trying to find a new church home. Through a bit of a fluke, we ended up at one that wasn't even on the original list. In due course we made friends, found a place and settled in, eventually transferring our membership to the new church a year or so ago. Sadly, however, within 2 months of having done so, I began to regret it. I still love and appreciate the friends I've made there, but as time has gone on, I became increasingly more disturbed by the sermons and behavior of the senior pastor at the church in question. Granted, I wasn't particularly star-struck by him in the first place, but he seemed to be struggling more and more and his sermons became more and more insulting and/or offensive as time went on. It became clear to me that on a good day, our philosophical and moral and theological views were radically at odds. I began to be aware of problems that most of the congregation wasn't privy to, things like his bullying of staff, an inability to delegate or work cooperatively with staff, an unethical manipulating of both people and attendance statistics, and firing staff he has no right to fire, as well as outright lying. It was bad enough that the man had a rampant megalomania and messianic complex going behind the scenes, but worse yet that the one person who was most supposed to "guide the flock" was becoming the largest stumbling block to those earnestly trying to strengthen their faith and solidify their beliefs.
I could go on for days about some of the more sordid and intolerant things the man has done or said in the past several months, but I won't. Suffice to say that the staff-parish committee has ardently been seeking his transfer for the last two months or more. Today in service, it was announced that he would be staying another year and that the minister for our contemporary service would be going to another church. I knew this was coming, and many of us "in the know" were despondent over the decision, not the least because we know the man is just petty enough to seek punitive action against those who crossed him. In our anger and frustration, the girlie and I have frequently threatened to walk out of the service the moment the announcement was made. After months of waiting for word about whether or not he'd stay, of deciding whether or not we would then stay if he did, etc., I became became exhausted and demoralized, and even this morning I didn't know whether or not I would do anything. I just didn't want to deal with it. I also didn't want to leave my choir friends in the lurch going forward, but neither am I interested in tolerating the world's most appalling and narrow-minded sermons for another year. I knew that several people from the previous service walked out after the announcement was made or before the senior pastor began his sermon; eventually the service started hemorrhaging members. But I still didn't know what I was going to do (or not do). Then after the announcement was made in the traditional service I sat and listened to the minister flagrantly lie about how the contemporary service's minister had been "talking about going to the new church and was looking forward to it and really wanted to go" when he had, in fact, been ordered to request transfer by the senior pastor. As I listened to the moral leader of my current church stand in the pulpit and lie his ass off, I started shaking. At that point, my mind was made up for me; there was no turning back. As soon as the choir finished singing its anthem and the minister stood up to begin his sermon, I stood up in the choir loft, walked out past the piano, then marched straight up the aisle, stripping off my choir robe along the way. When I reached the back door, I slammed my hand into it hard to open it and strode out. I wasn't the only choir member to leave the traditional service, but I was the only one to do so as definitively.
Afterwards, I went to the contemporary service, boldly wearing the "Get Out of Hell Free" card I'd gotten from the "Hey, Nunnie Nunnie" show at the RenFest yesterday (I figured I'd need all the help I could get...) I found my girlie and sat by her. My mouth was dry and my hands were still shaking enough that I had to have the girlie open up my peppermint for me. When the contemporary service ended, several members found out what I had done and hugged me and even said they were proud of me, which made me feel a little better, but not as much as knowing that my girlie was proud of me for standing up against the intolerance and injustices being perpetrated by the minister. I know others at the traditional service probably felt like following me but were too afraid, just as I know that others will probably not want to talk to me anymore. But that's okay. I made my statement, loud and clear, just as I did when I signed petitions against SOPA or voted against damaging legislation or spoke out against injustice or hatred. It may make a difference or it may not; doesn't really matter. Either way, I will continue to support the congregation and the church (as opposed to the pastor) whether or not I am there, just as I will continue to support my country even while I exercise my freedom of speech against the tyrannical and/or damaging policies of short-sighted politicians more interested in serving their own ends than the people they were elected to represent.
So that's my "wisdom" for you today--stand up for what you believe, whatever that may be, however big or small. Things won't always go the way you'd like, and that's okay. But change will never happen while you sit on your backside complaining about the things you don't like. And your children are watching you...what lessons do you want them to learn from you? Today my child watched me protest ignorance and injustice; she saw me put my "money where my mouth is" as I stood up for what I believe to be right, instead of spewing meaningless and powerless platitudes. Today I made her proud of me. Who can ask for more than that? What I did today may seem small in the face of all the political divisiveness and unrest fomenting in the US at the moment, but it was still a step forward.
Stand up for what you believe. Do SOMETHING. Because times? They are a-changin'.
Actually, if I'm honest, most of this year has been like that. Instead of being some passionate protestor in my twenties when I had little to lose, I find myself, at the "ripe old age" of 47, suddenly choosing to stand up for the things I believe rather than being content to follow a path of least resistance. Rather than sitting around grumbling, as I have been wont to do in the past (and which ultimately accomplishes pretty much nothing), I am finding my voice.
For example, I have become rather vocal about TSA's abuse of civil liberties and its wild inconsistencies in procedure from airport to airport. It's not that I have a problem with trying to protect American citizens from potential terrorist threats, because I don't. It's more that I object to the methods being used to accomplish this supposed protection, and even more the general public's willingness to put up with any amount of crap from airport officials just so individuals can be sent on their way as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. And yet one airport will pass me through with enough metal to build a small Death Star while another airport will frisk me for even thinking about the metal involved in orthodontia. Things like pen knives and nail clippers are expressly prohibited, but I can bring a 12"
Perhaps more surprising to me has been the change recently in my political viewpoints, which I have assiduously avoided voicing most of my life because I believed that my political opinions weren't really anyone else's business. Were you to ask, I would probably say that I have always viewed myself as an Independent, though I've tended to lean right when voting because of my philosophical beliefs. In truth, politics have always a bit problematic for me because I grew up in a very blue collar, Democratic household, but I married a very white collar man from a very conservative, Republican household. Not surprisingly, my political opinions over the years have been fairly evenly split between the two camps. Yet in the past year, I have found myself becoming appalled by the increasingly extremist views of leading Republicans, particularly regarding the current "War on Women." It's one thing to have conservative beliefs based on one's religion, but I don't understand when it became acceptable to start using those beliefs to dictate the beliefs of others. Wasn't religious freedom one of the cornerstones of our Constitution? I have no problem with Democrats or Republicans or whomever having whatever religious views they like. I do, however, have a big problem with elected officials forcing me to be bound to laws based on the moral and philosophical views of someone other than myself. That is as un-Constitutional as much of what TSA does. No one should have the right to imprison me for having a miscarriage just because somebody conservative doesn't believe in abortion. Miscarriage and abortion are not the same. I don't believe any government has the right to force me to submit to unnecessary medical procedures just because somebody conservative doesn't believe in abortion. For the record, neither do I--that would be pretty hypocritical for someone who was adopted. I DO believe there can be extenuating circumstances which justify it, however. But that doesn't matter. Whether or not I (or anyone) believes in abortion doesn't change the fact that decisions regarding it are not the purview of the government but rather a concern only of the patient and her physician and any relevant significant others. Politicians don't ask the medical community for advice on nuclear weaponry and/or the domestic economy, so why do they feel the need not only to offer their advice on medicine, but to enact specific laws demanding that we follow that advice? Big brother indeed.
I could go on for days regarding things like contraception and equal wages and any number of other issues currently clogging the news media, but I won't, because that wasn't the point of this post. The point is to explain how things such as the above have been leading me to take a more active role in standing up for what I believe to be right. As Edmund Burke once said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." I understand that quote a lot more now than I did when I was 20; I guess that's what comes of getting older and theoretically more wise--or at least getting a little more perspective. So today, I did something. It probably won't make a difference in the grand scheme of life, but I did something. I made a gesture. I made a point. I went on my very own protest march.
Not long after we moved here, I spent several weeks trying to find a new church home. Through a bit of a fluke, we ended up at one that wasn't even on the original list. In due course we made friends, found a place and settled in, eventually transferring our membership to the new church a year or so ago. Sadly, however, within 2 months of having done so, I began to regret it. I still love and appreciate the friends I've made there, but as time has gone on, I became increasingly more disturbed by the sermons and behavior of the senior pastor at the church in question. Granted, I wasn't particularly star-struck by him in the first place, but he seemed to be struggling more and more and his sermons became more and more insulting and/or offensive as time went on. It became clear to me that on a good day, our philosophical and moral and theological views were radically at odds. I began to be aware of problems that most of the congregation wasn't privy to, things like his bullying of staff, an inability to delegate or work cooperatively with staff, an unethical manipulating of both people and attendance statistics, and firing staff he has no right to fire, as well as outright lying. It was bad enough that the man had a rampant megalomania and messianic complex going behind the scenes, but worse yet that the one person who was most supposed to "guide the flock" was becoming the largest stumbling block to those earnestly trying to strengthen their faith and solidify their beliefs.
I could go on for days about some of the more sordid and intolerant things the man has done or said in the past several months, but I won't. Suffice to say that the staff-parish committee has ardently been seeking his transfer for the last two months or more. Today in service, it was announced that he would be staying another year and that the minister for our contemporary service would be going to another church. I knew this was coming, and many of us "in the know" were despondent over the decision, not the least because we know the man is just petty enough to seek punitive action against those who crossed him. In our anger and frustration, the girlie and I have frequently threatened to walk out of the service the moment the announcement was made. After months of waiting for word about whether or not he'd stay, of deciding whether or not we would then stay if he did, etc., I became became exhausted and demoralized, and even this morning I didn't know whether or not I would do anything. I just didn't want to deal with it. I also didn't want to leave my choir friends in the lurch going forward, but neither am I interested in tolerating the world's most appalling and narrow-minded sermons for another year. I knew that several people from the previous service walked out after the announcement was made or before the senior pastor began his sermon; eventually the service started hemorrhaging members. But I still didn't know what I was going to do (or not do). Then after the announcement was made in the traditional service I sat and listened to the minister flagrantly lie about how the contemporary service's minister had been "talking about going to the new church and was looking forward to it and really wanted to go" when he had, in fact, been ordered to request transfer by the senior pastor. As I listened to the moral leader of my current church stand in the pulpit and lie his ass off, I started shaking. At that point, my mind was made up for me; there was no turning back. As soon as the choir finished singing its anthem and the minister stood up to begin his sermon, I stood up in the choir loft, walked out past the piano, then marched straight up the aisle, stripping off my choir robe along the way. When I reached the back door, I slammed my hand into it hard to open it and strode out. I wasn't the only choir member to leave the traditional service, but I was the only one to do so as definitively.
Afterwards, I went to the contemporary service, boldly wearing the "Get Out of Hell Free" card I'd gotten from the "Hey, Nunnie Nunnie" show at the RenFest yesterday (I figured I'd need all the help I could get...) I found my girlie and sat by her. My mouth was dry and my hands were still shaking enough that I had to have the girlie open up my peppermint for me. When the contemporary service ended, several members found out what I had done and hugged me and even said they were proud of me, which made me feel a little better, but not as much as knowing that my girlie was proud of me for standing up against the intolerance and injustices being perpetrated by the minister. I know others at the traditional service probably felt like following me but were too afraid, just as I know that others will probably not want to talk to me anymore. But that's okay. I made my statement, loud and clear, just as I did when I signed petitions against SOPA or voted against damaging legislation or spoke out against injustice or hatred. It may make a difference or it may not; doesn't really matter. Either way, I will continue to support the congregation and the church (as opposed to the pastor) whether or not I am there, just as I will continue to support my country even while I exercise my freedom of speech against the tyrannical and/or damaging policies of short-sighted politicians more interested in serving their own ends than the people they were elected to represent.
So that's my "wisdom" for you today--stand up for what you believe, whatever that may be, however big or small. Things won't always go the way you'd like, and that's okay. But change will never happen while you sit on your backside complaining about the things you don't like. And your children are watching you...what lessons do you want them to learn from you? Today my child watched me protest ignorance and injustice; she saw me put my "money where my mouth is" as I stood up for what I believe to be right, instead of spewing meaningless and powerless platitudes. Today I made her proud of me. Who can ask for more than that? What I did today may seem small in the face of all the political divisiveness and unrest fomenting in the US at the moment, but it was still a step forward.
Stand up for what you believe. Do SOMETHING. Because times? They are a-changin'.
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