A Prayer for the Stupid, Skinny Young Lady I Met

May you live long enough.

Long enough to feel the slow, permanent betrayal of your own body, evidenced most painfully by the gradual downward slide of your once perfect breasts.

May you one day lose your reading glasses and search the entire house, only to find them in the freezer. And then realize with the worst kind of dawning horror (think Halle Berry in any of the X-Men films) that this is the beginning of the end.

In the distant future, may you keep telling yourself that you’re the “cool granny”, only to catch one of your ungrateful brood rolling his eyes at you as he opens up your Christmas present (another stupid sweater).

May you one day realize, shockingly and suddenly, that you are no longer relevant. And that you don’t recognize anyone on the radio anymore.

And that no one listens to the radio anymore.

In fact, there is no more radio. Instead, it’s a digital devise planted under the skin that receives a signal from a satellite. Which you don’t have, because the numbers are too damn small and frankly, you’re scared of the new technology.

May you live long enough to realize that smart lasts longer than cute. Sadly, because you never really read anything of substance, and only bought a lot of clothes and shoes that you can no longer wear, you won’t even be able to impress anyone with your brains.

May you live long enough to repeat the same damn story every Thanksgiving to your grandkids about how cute you used to be, and be ignored every time.

May you one day hold your grandchild’s tiny hand and marvel at how helpless you both are. And by that time, may you have lost enough of your sense of humor to be able to laugh at the fact that neither of you can control your bladder worth a damn.

May you one day be shocked into reality by the young, attractive man who calls you “Ma’am” instead of asks for your number.

May you be laughed out of a club by the same type of young, attractive woman you used to be.

Meanwhile…

Watch as others, elderly like yourself, are surrounded by the adoration of family members and friends, old and new.

Watch as other women embrace the passing years with humor and grace, their limbs and joints straight and fluid, as yours curl and bulge from the pressure of holding it back with rigid denial.

May they float past you, these women, lustrous and shining, their regal natures in sharp contrast to your shrunken, crone-ish existence.

One day soon, I pray you will begin to cultivate your kinder nature. I pray that you will soon recognize that nature in others, and gravitate towards it.

I pray that one day you will no longer see an older woman as a symbol of a lost fight, a decline into darkness.

But instead, as a sign of survival and wisdom, and God’s Grace.

Stephen King's Under The Dome

Okay, okay. I've been gone for a while.

I get it.

And I'm sorry.

But I have a really good excuse. I've been busy training for the zombie war and zombie proofing my apartment.

Can't really get into what all that entails, but just trust that all that shit consumes a lot of time.

But even though the impending zombie war is a blog unto itself (have you guys noticed all the zombie press lately? Aren't you the tiniest bit curious about what THAT'S about?), that's not why I'm back from my brief hiatus.

I'm here because of Stephen King.

Why, you may ask, is Stephen King the reason you stepped away from the gun range and the planks of plywood covering your windows?

Three words: Under the Dome.

Have you seen this book? Yes. Yes, you have. Except you probably thought it was a Buick.

Dome is King's longest singular work to date, weighing in at a hefty 1,074 pages (or something like that). The hardcover also doubles as a home body sculpting kit. Or a yacht anchor.

I'm a big King fan - have been since the 8th grade, when my childhood friend, a collector of Fangoria magazine and lover of all things horror, introduced me to a meek, socially awkward young girl named Carrie.

It was love at first sight. Here I was, a young Black misfit from a mid-sized city in the Midwest, awkward and often alone, who thought I could smite my enemies if I only squinted hard enough.

Or wished I could, at least.

And then, I met Carrie White.

Hooked. Can you dig it?

I read almost everything he printed from that point on, falling head first into the worlds that King created, emerging mole-eyed and dazed, weeks later.

So when Dome appeared on the shelves, I was excited. I read blurbs about the plot, and was excited. I was prepared to be taken far away from what had become a safe, comfortable life, and was looking forward to the trip.

I got exactly what I wanted. It's just, well...

You know how it is when you go to Las Vegas, and at first it's awesome? You're all excited to be there, you stay up all night the first night, walking around, all google-eyed and shit...

Then the second night, you try the slots...

And the third night, you try to catch Cirque du Soleil or Cher or something...

And on the fourth night, you realize that all the women's boobs are fake.

And that constant noise from the slot machines is getting on your fucking nerves.

And all of the lounge acts are awful.

And by day five, you just wanna get the hell outta there.

That was my experience with Dome - basically, it could've been a nice trip, but it was just too damn long.

It was basically about a small New England town (surprise, surprise) that winds up trapped under an enormous, transparent dome made of indeterminate material. The book isn't as much about the dome itself (and its origin and purpose) as it is about the people trapped underneath it.

Great. A story about the human condition, the will to survive under adverse circumstances, blah, blah, blah...

I can dig it. But after 650 pages, I really couldn't give a damn about those people under the dome, and started thinking about other shit like:

"I wonder what cats think about."

"Whatever happened to Colonel Abrams?"

"Will Boy George ever make music again?"

"Will J.K. Rowling ever take us back to Hogwarts?"

Shit like that.

Not to say that this book didn't have its stellar moments. Without giving too much away, there's a moment when all HELL breaks loose, and I thought: FINALLY. Now things are getting interesting.

But that was like, almost at the end.

Now let's get one thing clear: I'm not intimidated by a long story. After all, I hiked through King's Dark Tower series, which was freakin' AMAZING (although the ending pissed me off, but that's another blog), and the Harry Potter series.

The key word here - series.

At least with Dark Tower and Potter, I got some breathing room in between. Free time for sex and laundry.

Not this endless, meandering voyage. Think Neverending Story minus the flying dog and sexually ambiguous children.

Because you see, when I read a book, I get involved. I get to know the characters, form alliances, root for them (or not), care about them (or not). Want to see them succeecd. Or become disfigured in a horrible boating accident.

It's a serious undertaking for me. But The Dome presented some problems for me.

Number one, there were too many characters. Granted, most of them were dead by the end of the book (spoiler alert), but it was just too hard trying to keep up with whoever was dying at the time...

Secondly, most of the characters just weren't likeable. Which, I suppose, could be a credit to King's character development. No one can sketch out a three dimensional psychopath better than him.

Or an asshole. And Dome was full of 'em.

One of the redeeming qualities of this book is that in typical King fashion, the bad guys get their comeuppance. And one particular bad guy (a dude named Jim Rennie - a man so repulsive and morally corrupt he made me shudder) gets exactly what he deserves. It was quite satisfying.

But after all was said and done, I can't say that I walked away from this book feeling fulfilled. I was just glad it was over.

Not like the end of Insomnia or Green Mile, which left me in tears, or The Stand, which left me paranoid and sleeping with the lights on.

Jus ready for something else.

Anything else.

Things I Saw On My Walk Today

An elderly couple walked slowly past the duck pond, talking softly in Russian. They weren’t holding hands, but I could’ve sworn they were.

A female duck swam around the lagoon, surrounded by five male ducks. She picked the prettiest one. The others swam away in disgust and thinly veiled embarrassment. I could practically see the word “bitch” in cartoon bubbles over their heads.

An old man walked an old dog. They looked alike. They both had aching joints and jowls. He’ll never be the same after he dies, I thought. Not sure who the subject was in that sentence. It probably doesn’t even matter.

An African couple stood huddled against the wind, trying to figure out their new digital camera. The wife discovered a new function, and the two stared open-mouthed at the tiny, fold-out screen. He gently placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder. The wind blew her braids around their heads.

Three young men of Middle Eastern origin walked an enormous Rottweiler. They took turns holding the leash.

A young woman sat on a concrete wall, taking pictures of the turbulent lake with her cell phone. Her phone rang. She ignored it.

A man and his son pulled a large fish from the dock. The son ran to show his mother. The father watched him run away and smiled.

A woman pushed a legless man in a wheelchair past the lake. He never looked up.

Three men in decorated leather jackets stood in front of the Veterans’ Memorial. A minute passed - they patted each other on the back, and walked towards the water. They spoke in volumes. They never said a word.

A toddler threw a ball at his older brother. It went backwards, over his head. He and his brother laughed. The sound brought the sun from behind a cloud.

A runner stopped suddenly, mid-stride, in front of a twisted, old Weeping Willow. The runner tilted his head, as if his name was called.

A man walked quickly across the street, trying to beat the light. He left his wife behind to fend for herself. She shook her head, either in resignation or disgust. I couldn’t tell.

A homeless man asked a young woman for change. She shrugged her shoulders. He blended into the brick wall.

curse, or blessing?

I heard somewhere that there’s an Irish curse that says “may you get everything you pray for”. I find it fascinating that this is considered a curse and not a blessing. Not sure of the true origin of this statement, but it brings up an interesting point – which I’ve been thinking about for some time now.

Upon first glance, the concept of getting everything I ask for seems lovely – especially during those times when life has its foot in my ass. When this happens, I usually stop, take stock of what’s going on (or NOT), and ask God to provide whatever’s missing.

And then, I wait.

Or even worse, I take things into my own hands.

But the question always surfaces: is it good for us to get everything we want? This is something I struggle with on a daily basis. When I search for meaning, some of my well-meaning churchfolk associates throw Proverbs 37:4 (footnote #1) in my face to get me to shut up. Yet something in their eyes says that maybe, just maybe, my question struck a nerve.

Because seriously, I know that underneath all that rhetoric and all those random, context-less Bible verses lives a fragile human who is never satisfied. Someone who frequently tests God’s love with requests, throwing Scripture back in His face to remind Him of his promises. Because that’s what spoiled brats do to their parents, right?

Yup. Guilty as charged. There I am, caught smack in-between a healthy relationship with God, American capitalistic greed and that telepastor (you know the one, with money in his name for crying out loud), who tries to convince me that God wants all Christians to be prosperous. Meanwhile, I keep getting caught in the following cycle:

See thing/concept/person. Want thing/concept/person. Pray for thing/concept/person. Don’t get it/him. Whine and complain. Still don’t get it/him. Go get it/him myself. Lose it/him. Repeat.

This was the story of my life until my sister/friend/counselor/traveling partner/fellow fried chicken connoisseur Karen told me the following: “There are three answers to every prayer. YES, NO and WAIT.”

WAIT? That’s the hardest thing in the world for me to do. Especially when I am being bullied by advertisements and surrounded by friends whose lives, quite frankly, seem to be WAY more fabulous than mine. And then there’s the church, which sits back and watches each member get swallowed whole by his/her desire (read: DEBT), yet does not provide education nor relief. Instead, it exascerbates the problem by saying : go after it! Get what you want! It’s God’s Will that you should be happy! Diminishing the Author and Inventor of EVERYTHING into a bad magical act. Think Doug Henning, turning water into wine in a tiny lounge on Las Vegas Boulevard. TA-DAAAAAH!

Pray for a car? POOF, you have a car. Pray for a husband? BAM, there he is. Pray for a new house? WHAMMO, it’s moving day. Cue the sound of one person clapping, VERY slowly.

But I’m still waiting. And no one is telling me that sometimes, the thing I want so badly just isn’t good for me. And that one day it will become clear to me why I didn’t get what I asked for. And most importantly, my fixation on what I don’t have is the spiritual equivalent of thumbing my nose at those things God has already done in my life.

I have to remember that denial is not necessarily a sign that God has turned His face from me. Sometimes it’s just plain ol’ discipline, which ultimately, is good for my character. Good parents know this.

True, I do want to have a big house with a huge yard so I can get that dog I always wanted (Siberian Husky), but it’s no secret that I’m lazy as hell. Mr. Henning could show up RIGHT NOW and wave his little magic wand, and less than a month later the place would be deemed unlivable by the City, the dog taken away by the ASPC.

Okay, probably not that bad, but pretty damn close.

There’s also the fact that I’m broke – so Doug could conjure up the house, but I won’t be able to keep it.

So, I’m living in a tiny apartment right now. It’s not fabulous or anything, but it’s clean (for the most part), cozy and way better than living under the freeway.

And it’s MINE. I have all I need – I couldn’t (read: shouldn’t) ask for more.

Besides, my life as it is now is bursting at the seams with beauty and love. My grandfather just celebrated his 102nd birthday. My parents are both alive and healthy and (dare I say it) two of the FINEST people walking the face of this Earth. I have one job now that I love which [1]pays well. And God has been merciful enough to surround me with beautiful, intelligent and caring people.

And then there’s 1996 (footnote #2).
Honestly – I couldn’t create a better life for myself if I tried. And believe me, I’ve tried, several times, with awful results each time – leaving me dumfounded, screaming at the sky: “WHY THE HELL DOESN’T ANYTHING EVER WORK OUT FOR ME?”

The answer was simple: I kept getting in the way. Things didn’t start to look up for me until I took some time to be quiet and listen – not to the usual suspects, but to the still, small voice that is never wrong about anything.

It’s not easy. But if I can do it, anyone can.



[1] Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart (King James Version)

[2] I was diagnosed with Lupus in the June of 1996, after almost a year of misdiagnoses, and finally, a brief stay in hospice care when I drew up a Will and began to say my goodbyes.