Snap!

I met Mark, Cliff, and Ik while working at a tanning salon in Greenville.  When I first laid eyes on Mark, I thought what I'd bet most people would think: he's a big football player--a man's man.  That he ended up being . . . only in a different sense of the expression. 

We became fast friends.  It wasn't long before he invited me to his condo to hang out.  There I got to better know his roommates Cliff and Ik and met various other friends.  Before I knew it, I was hanging out at the gay clubs WAY more than straight clubs. 

I didn't view those men as my "gay friends" at all.  (Well, not for the most part.  There were some things that one just can't help but notice.)  This was a fabulous group of friends that wanted nothing from me but friendship.  And in return?  Extreme loyalty and even protection.  What more could a nineteen-year-old girl ask for? 

Every now and then, I'd privately reflect on how much my life would probably baffle the minds of those I grew up with.  I felt like I'd seen it all--like I was SO worldly in comparison to those in small town Minnesota.  Perhaps I was.  I didn't know.  I didn't care.  My new world was filled with shiny shirts, body glitter, and a techno version of every song ever made nearly every night of my life.  It was the best.  And it was mine.

Until one night when I stopped over at Mark's place.  We were all just sitting around watching Dawson's Creek.  Mark would throw out the occasional, "Joey, girl, you need to eat somethin', you skinny @#!$%."  Cliff would nod his head in agreement while mumbling something unintelligible.  Ik would lightly chastise Mark for being so not classy.  And I'd just sit there loving it all.  Again, mine, right?  Then Mark asked me to come into the kitchen with him.

"Girl, you are so gorgeous!  Just look at your fine, little self.  If I wasn't gay, I'd eat you up with a spoon."  He dropped an ice cube into his drink.  "Shoot, I bet you have a brother, don't you?"  I told him I do, and produced a snapshot of Duane from my wallet (not the same one from the left ;D).  Mark clutched his heart.  "Oh Sweet Jesus.  He's beautiful.  He's gorgeous like you, baby!  Only, y'all don't look anything alike.  Does he have a pager?"  (The days of the dorky pocket-clipped beeper.)  So I paged Duane for Mark.  Tee-hee.


When Du called the number back, I told him I was at this really cool party and asked him if he wanted to come.  He got so excited, y'all, because: "My sister always knows the coolest-azz people and the hottest chicks."  I gave him the address. 

He had no clue he was about to step into a condo full of gay men. 

I couldn't wait.  Why?  My brother and I were constantly trying to one-up each other with practical jokes.  I did let Mark know that my brother is straight.  Mark just didn't care.  He just wanted to "look" at Duane anyway.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  No one stood to open it.  I just grinned--I was so pleased with myself.  I thought: I win!  Mark hollered, "Come in!"  Du walked through the door with his friend Joey and stopped short on the platform of the foyer.  The room full of gay men was silent as they just gawked at my brother and his very attractive friend.  Joey took a mach-speed inventory of the room and was now hiding behind my brother.  Duane assessed his situation immediately as well.  I noted the look in his eyes with much satisfaction.  Ha. I win.

Just then, Mark shot my brother an overly lusty gaze--and from the comfort of his recliner clear across the room, Mark to Duane:  "Honey, you gay?"  Duane didn't miss even a nano beat as he looked Mark directly in the eye: "No, baby, but if I wasss, I'd pick you."  With a flick of the wrist, he pointed at Mark then followed it up with three snaps in Z formation. 

The room full of people busted out with uproarious laughter. 

Eventually many more people showed up as it was a big party at Mark's just about every night of the week.  Duane spent all night entertaining the house full of people with his antics.  And the best part?  He left with a girl on his arm. 

Quotation of the Day:  "Mom, you love Duane more than you love me.  Everybody does."            ~Me as a Child~

Thank you for reading.  God bless.  

For Janelle

Two summers ago, Avriana was a year and a half old.  She was just getting to that point when babies look around at their playpens like, "Your days are numbered, pal," and to their moms like, "Yours, too, lady.  Mwah-ha-ha!"  But I had her in the playpen in the living room while I went to my bedroom to continue my phone conversation with my mom (without the benefit of SpongeBob's overly exuberant "I'm ready! I'm ready!").  I closed the door for good measure. 

Then tried to get out again.  
                                                                            
Now a quasi-short dialogue:

Me:  "WhoamygoshMomIcan'tgetoutofmyroom!"  Yeah, all one speedy word--just like it looks. 

Mom:  "So I told her," *chuckle, chuckle,* "I told her--"

Me:  "Mom!  MOM!  Listen!  I really can't get out of my room!"

Mom:  "What do you mean you can't get out?  I don't know what that means."  Okay, in real life--just now, I stopped and laughed at that line all over again. 

Me:  "It means that I'm trying to turn the door knob and it's totally locked!"

Mom:  "Well, it doesn't lock from the outside, for crying out loud, so just  . . . unlock it!" 

Me:  "Uh, there is no lock on this door!"

Mom:  "WELL, THERE HAS TO BE, or it wouldn't be locked!  Are you sure?"

I'm all reefing on the door knob, trying to twist, turn, pry, kick, hi-yah, whatever.  All the while, TOTALLY freaked out that Miss Avriana Mwah-ha-ha Pants is fixin' to get out of her pen and explore the wide world of dangers without me.  Okay, no, I can't panic.  That NEVER does any good.

Mom:  "Mary?!  Are you still there?  What about Avriana?  What if she gets out?!  Do you want me to send your uncle over?" 

Me:  "Well, that's the good but bad part, Mom; I purposely and responsibly locked the front and back doors.  He can't get in."

Mom:  "Oh, I bet he could!"

Me:  "Okay, no thank you.  I'll figure this out."  If not before, now you're wondering where in the world James is, right?  Place?  Irrelevant.  So?  He wasn't able to help.  ;D

Mom:  "Okay, call me if you need me!  You just get to that baby!"

So there I was . . . clad in a ratty tank top and a pair of James's boxers.  VERY attractive.  It was already hot that day, but the sweat beads began to work overtime as I searched my room for something--I didn't know what.  Ah-ha!  Screwdriver!  Thank God James never puts anything away. 

Okay, now the door is just incredibly damaged.

I'm still stuck in here.  I can hear Avriana start to whimper.  Whoa, the lioness mom gear that'll kick in during such a point is phenomenal.

I said out loud: "Welp, I'm going to have to go through the window!"  I nearly threw my vanity, which blocked my targeted window, out of the way, tore the screen off the frame and then proceeded to stick my head out the window.  Wait!  Still in nothing but fancy tank top and ginormous boxers.  That can't be good.  (Busy neighborhood.)  So I shoved a pair of jeans on over my draws.  Now we're ready. 

I escaped my bedroom window easily enough.  (It's just over a four-foot drop from the bottom of the window sill to the ground.)  Okay, now, how do I get into the living room?  Off goes another screen.  Avriana is now looking at me through the living room window.  Bless her heart; she was still in her playpen!  Good girl!  I hollered, "Mama's coming for you, baby!"  I really said that.  What was I thinking, Lifetime movie?  Ew.

After I shoved the window up, I had no idea how to get in.  I mean, at first, I thought I'd just simply hoist myself up.  But . . . Noooo.  So not a fifteen-year-old gymnast anymore.  But it had to have been a pretty funny scene to any passersby at the moment.  The quickest trial and error ever. 

"Leverage," I mumbled, "I need . . . Ah-ha!  Deck chair!"  Easy enough, right?  Again: Noooo.  So now that I'm standing on this chair, I've got to figure out how to get over the metal sill without slicing my body precisely in half (paint dust and bruises were inevitable and accepted).  Avriana started to whimper again.  And the adrenaline returns for a third round.  JUST GO, GIRL!  Heave-hoooooo!

Next thing I knew, I was dangling from the window--one half inside, the other--much less flattering half--still exposed to the world outside.  James's boxers were all mushroomed out of the top of my jeans.  I looked like a bloomin' idiot.  I swear I heard chuckles from the ambiguous depths of my neighborhood. 

With one last burst of energy, I hauled my bunchy-boxers butt over the sill and dropped to the floor inside the living room.  And the best part? Avriana is now jumping up and down while laughing and clapping.  Perrrfect.



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Epilogue:


I nearly beat that door in trying to get it to open--from the outside now.  I even took an electric saw to it at one point.  Don't ask what I was thinking.  I think I just wanted to see how much more obstinate it could be.  It didn't budge.  I kicked it with the force of ten donkeys (the jackass that I was by then).  Nothing. I grabbed another screwdriver.  No.  A hammer?  No.  At this point, the poor door knob is nearly hanging off the door--I mean, I can now see that there IS a lock on the door, and the latch is faithfully tucked inside of its square little cubbyhole in the door frame. 
I finally gave up and decided to go get my neighbor (who is a carpenter) for help.  As I started to walk away, I looked back at my challenge with sad eyes.  I love a challenge--loathe losing.  I walked back over and tried to simply turn the knob in a normal, light fashion.  It popped right open.


God bless.

Michelle vs. Mary

~Michelle's Llama~

vs.

 

~Mary's Llama~

(or some favoring beast)

You'd do well to note the differences, folks.  The first photograph was taken by Michelle Jackowski of Michelle Jackowski Photography (plug!).  She is a very dear friend of mine and a brilliant artist. 

Let's now turn our attention to my digi-cam shot of some brutish creature who apparently was not happy with his (her?) stay at the Itasca County Fair last summer.  Llama?  Alpaca?  I'm really not sure which one it is (please feel free to correct me). 

But I am sure that my shot looks like a freeze frame from a low-budget version of Napoleon Dynamite, whereas Michelle's photograph looks like a precious print out of a cozy home in Arizona.  Look at her photo again; can you see the versatility?  Kid's poster, postcard, greeting card, family room print--any which way guarantees smiles.  That's what we're dealing with when we own a Michelle Jackowski piece-- I promise; I have two:

Please check out her blog site to view more FABULOUS shots! 

(The red jelly close-up WILL make you drool--and want a copy for your home.)

http://michellejackowskiphotography.blogspot.com/

I love you, dear friend!

God bless.




And for Steph:

For Righteousness’ Sake

First it was Thomas Jefferson who felt that religion is a very personal matter—personal enough to separate it from “State”.

More recently, Barak Obama felt it better to observe National Prayer Day “privately” and failed to show up for occasions that have been tradition for The President of the United States to attend.


Okay, fine. Do what you want; I don’t believe God wants me to try to push Him on anyone anyway.


But then I’m really wondering why I have to have the beliefs of others forced upon me.


When I enrolled in college, I was told that I was required to take a philosophy course in order to receive my A.A. I’ve got to tell you that I really didn’t think there’d be any harm in that. I’d just listen to some Socrates wannabe drone on and on about, well, the Socratic (Dialectical) Method. I wasn’t wrong about what to expect there.


However, things changed a bit in that when I learned about the Allegory of the Cave. I thought that Plato’s philosophical views in this regard did not differ too terribly much from a few of my views as a Christian. And that’s when I believe my instructor (let’s refer to him as Mr. Tyrannical Pants) saw his opportunity to try to suck me in.


That and the fact that he caught on really quickly that I am a student who will totally break down and cry (for no longer than a day or two) if I don’t make the dean’s list.


Eventually he and I would debate outside of class (i.e. the school library, etc.). He in one fashion told me that he liked having a vocal Christian in his class—that it gave him an opponent, making things more interesting (while he was grandstanding). He verbally tore Catholicism apart and even used the name of the Lord in vain at least one time that I remember. At one point, I looked at a classmate who sat next to me and whispered, “This feels like such a God-less class.” My peer looked me in the eye and replied matter-of-factly, “That’s because it is.”


Well, when “circumstances” kept me from attending class a few too many times, Mr. Tyrannical Pants pulled me out of class and into his office (yes, he made sure to keep the door slightly ajar). He said something to the effect of noticing that I may be having some personal problems and then let me know that my grade would inevitably suffer if I continued to miss class. Yes, I surely was having some personal problems, ergo missing class—primarily because the majority of content in his course was scaring the life out of me. But I was pleasant and smiled as I said, “I’m fine. Why, what’s my grade in here now?” He showed me the grade book and pointed to my “B”. He then stated that he didn’t feel I was a “B” student and that he would like to give me the opportunity to turn it into the “A” he knew I deserved. (Perverts, you might as well check out now. There isn’t going to be anything to tickle your fancy here. Not sorry.)


He suggested that I take an “Incomplete” and that I finish up his course over the summer semester with a handful of essays (precisely five). He said he trusted my judgment as a writer to determine appropriate length, etc. He then signed off on the “Incomplete” form, handed me a few books from the school library, and told me he looked forward to hearing from me by the end of the summer. GOOD ENOUGH! I was so thankful!


Until I began turning in the essays via E-mail.


Let me tell you, these essays were far better than anything the majority of students in my class would’ve written (they actually didn’t have to write as many essays as I did . . . for starters). I thoroughly researched, diligently worked each philosophy/idea out in my head, and thoughtfully wrote about what I had learned. HOWEVER, Mr. Tyrannical Pants kept forwarding my essays back to me with “notes” (right, more like his own segmented essays) he’d inserted between my text. I took the bait and argued back. He loved it and seemed so pleased with my performances. I received great praise from him.


Toward mid-summer, I started to fizzle out at both ends. With our two-year-old, my ONLINE courses (yikes—tougher than land-based courses by far), and all of the extra work Mr. Tyrannical Pants had come to expect me to put into—not just my essays anymore—his debates, I started to crack under the pressure. He wanted me to wrap my head around the ideas of Descartes and Hume, to name a couple. I did the absolute best I could, investing hours upon hours into just thought alone (eventually, entire days were consumed with this insanity).


Ultimately, I had to take a break—with only one final essay to go. I remember my mom being so livid over this. She said, “Doesn’t he realize that you have a life outside of his get-off sessions?!” Yeah, no, he didn’t care. And, really, he had no idea that I was suffering—I don’t think he had anyway. Mom would beg to differ—she would say that of course he knew he was torturing me. At any rate, he never disclosed even the slightest innuendo that I would walk away from that course with anything less than an “A”. I mean, that was the whole point of taking the “Incomplete”, right?


So my final essay was to be on a chapter out of the book Sophie’s World. What a messed up compilation of ink on paper, man. I’m telling you. But I did my best. Eventually, I saw so many inconsistencies in Mr. Tyrannical Pants’ beloved novel, that I reached my wit’s end. A scripture that contained the word of Paul was paraphrased and not properly cited. What does that equal? Manipulation? Lack of ethics (yeah, locate the humor in that one)? Exploitation? A BIG, FAT LIE?


So I revolved my essay, not around that particular chapter per se, but around the misrepresentation of a Source in that chapter (I mean, how else I could justly comment on a faulty chapter— or author, for that matter?). I thought that Mr. Tyrannical Pants would love that I had started the debate of all debates as far as we two had been concerned thus far.

But . . . no.

He sent me a final E-mail that tore me apart—not just my feelings, but also my work on my paper (and ultimately the entire two semesters’ worth of work), and did I feel the trappings of a character attack as well? I mean, I could hear him yelling over the Net— I could all but smell the rage-induced sweat that trickled over his protruding veins. By the time I got to the end of his E-mail, my body was wracked with sobs.


He failed me on that paper. I received a “C” for a final grade in that class. My GPA plummeted.


I called my student advisor regarding this. She said that Mr. Tyrannical Pants had received numerous other complaints for favoring incidents that semester (big surprise: from other Christian students), and did I want to file a formal complaint. I said that I did not, for I knew my tears were stored up in God’s bottle.


So, President Obama, as you demand that Christians (and Jews apparently) stop forcing their practices down your throat, certainly you’ll ensure that Christians and Jews will be cushioned with an equal amount of safety. No? Well, in GOD we trust.


I’d now like to share with you the text of a link I was hooked into via Facebook (Thank you, Mandy). It was delivered to me in the midst of all of this turmoil:


“This is a true story of something that happened just a few years ago at U.S.C.


“There was a philosophy teacher there who was a deeply committed atheist. His primary goal for one required class was to spend the entire semester trying to prove that God couldn’t exist. His students were always afraid to argue with him because of his impeccable logic. Sure, some had argued in class at times, but no one had ever really gone against him because of his reputation.


“At the end of every semester on the last day, he would say to his class of 300 students: ‘If there is anyone here who still believes in Jesus, stand up!’ In twenty years, no one ever stood up. They knew what he was going to do next. He would say, ‘Because anyone who believes in God is a fool. If God existed, He could stop this piece of chalk from hitting the ground and breaking. Such a simple task to prove He is God, and yet, He can’t do it.’ And every year, he would drop the chalk onto the tile floor of the classroom, and it would shatter into a hundred pieces. All of the students would do nothing but stop and stare. Most of the students thought that God couldn’t exist. Certainly, a number of Christians had slipped through, but for twenty years, they had been too afraid to stand up.


“Well, a few years ago, there was a freshman who happened to enroll. He was a Christian and had heard stories about this professor. He was required to take the class for his major, and he was afraid. But for three months that semester, he prayed every morning that he would have the courage to stand up no matter what the professor did or what the class thought. Nothing they said could ever shatter his faith . . . he hoped.


“Finally the day came. The professor said, ‘If there is anyone here who still believes in God, stand up!’ The professor and the class of 300 people looked at the young man, shocked, as he stood up at the back of the classroom. The professor shouted, ‘You FOOL! If God existed, He would keep this piece of chalk from breaking when it hits the ground!’


“He proceeded to drop the chalk; but as he did, it slipped out of his fingers, rolled off his shirt cuff, onto the pleat of his pants, down his leg, and off his shoe. As it hit the ground, it simply rolled away unbroken.


“The professor’s jaw dropped as he stared at the chalk. He looked up at the young man and then ran out of the lecture hall.


“The young man, who stood, walked to the front of the room and shared his faith in Jesus for the next half an hour. 300 students stayed and listened as he told of God’s love for them and of His power through Jesus.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTOUbgbWAzA


God bless.




Quotation of the Day:


“If the world hates you, know that it hated Me before it hated you. If you belonged to the world, the world would treat you with affection and would love you as its own. But because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, the world hates you.” ~Jesus Christ~ 
John 15: 17-19

The Bi-Lo Stool

So Mom bought this green plastic mini step stool at a Bi-Lo store in Greenville, South Carolina. I'm guessing that it once served the purpose (perhaps it still does when I'm not around) of aiding her to reach things that are about five inches higher than her up-stretched (is that a word?) arm's length.

Anyway, when I was first dating James over four years ago, he and I witnessed a fantastically hilarious scene together. When we got to my mom's apartment to visit the next day, he wanted to tell my mom all about it. (I'm still wondering what he was thinking. Did he not see Princess stamped on my forehead the very first moment he laid eyes on me?) I interjected: "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing, dude? My mom, my story."

Mom handled my need to be the center of attention in one of her traditionally smooth ways. (Improbable? Yes. Impossible? Apparently not.) She somehow has this pool of resources in her head that she can refer to and pick from when she needs to simultaneously apologize for me and put me up on that pedestal that I will totally beg and pant for. No, I'm not embarrassed! Are you kidding me?!

She dragged out the Bi-Lo stool and told me to step on top of it, "Princess," to give my speech.

So I did. James was horrified. You could just see it in his fresh-to-Mary's-world eyes. And I proceeded to tell my mom my story. And when I got done? Yeah, she totally clapped. James's eyes were searching for a quick escape. (I do wonder why he's still here. Oh, that's right--I'm a really fabulous girl when you add everything up.)

Since that day, when I pull what my mom calls one of my "It's all about me, it's all about I, it's all about number one, oh my, me, my" stunts, she pulls out the Bi-Lo stool and prompts me (it really doesn't take much, certainly you've gathered that by now) to stand on it. So when deciding what to title my blog? . . .

And you know what I realized after I fell in love with my title? That stool is synonymous with fecal matter, toilet, bowel movement, potty, and crap. Perhaps. But I won't let it deter me.

God bless.





Quotation of the Day:
"I am the nucleus--you are but mere orbs." ~ Duane C. Heller ~ (aka my brother)