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Jennie’s Evangelic Sunday Rant

Lola Erudite

Yes, it’s true. My name is Jennie. I’m an evangelical Christian. It’s Sunday. And I feel like a good rant.

I didn’t actually know the real definition of “Evangelic” until yesterday and thus, until today, I could not actually subscribe to being one. –Besides, I figured it was hard enough to call myself a Christian without adding a further polarizing label. Words these days have so much unfortunate baggage…

So anyway, during the course of reading this great book a friend recommended to me, it was finally made clear: to be an evangelical Christian is to believe the Bible is true, but that it needs to be read in its historical context, rather than as a literal list of laws that we follow to the letter today (reading it that way would make you a fundamentalist).

So, yep. I’m an Evangelic. Hmmm, I wonder if I can shorten it to Angelic…

Anyway, that’s not to say I can explain some of what’s in the Bible. Nor is it to say that I think we have even close to all the answers — despite the fact that many-a-Christian will claim that they do. But, as crazy as it sounds to my former self of about 10 years ago, I do believe it is the true, inspired word of God.

So, why is it so repugnant to most? Why is it that I refused to even read it for so long, preferring, instead, to stand on the words and opinions of so many others — parroting new age-y ideas and shifting creation scenarios based on something good I had read; thinking Jesus sounded like a pretty good guy… but God? I wouldn’t normally accept a friend’s view on so much as a piece of luggage without thorough research, so why my ambivalence on this life and death issue? I honestly don’t know. If I were to guess, I would say that I was afraid of what I would find. I liked my life and I didn’t want anything to change.

Everyone is different and has different reasons why they reject the Bible. Maybe they think it condemns gay people (when in fact, it condemns us all). Or maybe they can’t swallow the Jonah story (hardee har har) and reject everything based on that. Maybe they can’t believe in a God that judges us – or worse, the Christian we all know who loves to judge and preach has turned them utterly off. Personally, I didn’t want to answer to anyone but my perfect self. (I still don’t.) I didn’t want to be one of those “born again Christian types” (I still don’t.) But after long, hard, skeptical thought, arguing and rationalizing, believing, then not, and starting all over again, reading both atheist and Christian authors, I can finally say I am a believer and I can articulate and defend my faith. And, hopefully I am done starting back at square one again. Now, it’s more likely to be 3 steps forward and 1 step back, rather than the inverse of that.

Anyway, here’s the question that I can’t help but ask you: Assume for a moment that God is real, and the Bible is true: THEN what? I’m having this very discussion with my dad right now. Obviously, since we are having the discussion, my dad doesn’t share my views. But it gets me thinking about everyone I know and just this once, I’d like anyone reading this to consider it.

Seriously.

Because, just imagine IF the Bible were true about Jesus being the son of God and that salvation only comes through belief in Him — where would that put you? As I said to my dad recently, I’d be totally cool with dying and having that be the end. Ahhhhh. Dark nothingness sounds not-too-bad in this annual season of spring craziness. (I’m not kidding.) But what if there *isn’t* nothingness. What if, like just about every single near death experiencer tells us, there is *something* after death. And, what IF that *something* is the God of the Bible? THEN what?

I only ask you to consider it. And to consider rolling up your sleeves and making an informed decision based on the evidence – for yourself – about what you believe and why. Personally, I believe if someone opens the door even a crack to God, he will reveal himself, but without that invitation, it will stay closed. After that, it’s up to you. I wouldn’t expect anyone to simply believe the Bible without good reason. I know I didn’t. (This isn’t blind faith.) But also don’t reject it based on a bunch of vague opinions that you haven’t researched for yourself. Don’t reject it (and Him) because of a lot of false Christian teaching, bad politicians and flawed churches made up of flawed humans. Make sure your decision is informed. Make sure that you’ve kept an open mind to both sides of the argument. And don’t get hung up the “details” that don’t matter to the central theme  (Jesus saves). Look at the larger picture, the evidence and base your decision on that.

Because, if you reject Jesus and end up being wrong, then you will have been very, very wrong. (Whereas, If I’m wrong, meh, no big deal. I just get that nothingness that sounds so good right about now.)

But I’m not wrong. Because, I’m never wrong. You should know that by now. After all, that’s the central them of this blog.

 

 

Why is Everyone Getting So Fat?

You all think it’s fast food and all the processed crap we eat, don’t you?

Well it’s not.

It’s stretch denim.

Look closely: this is not stretch denim. If it was, she could button those jeans, and gain another 10 no problem.
Look closely: this is not stretch denim. If it was, she could button those jeans, and gain another 10 no problem.

Stretch denim is the reason everyone in the world is getting fat. If there is an island in Indonesia that hasn’t gotten fat yet, it’s because they still don’t have stretch denim over there.

Stick with me here.

Shrink to Fit Levi 501sBack in the olden days — the Shrink to Fit Levi 501 Button Fly days for me — denim was denim. You bought a pair of jeans and you wore them until they wore out. Either that, or you got fat and grew out of them. There was Pre-Washed, Acid Washed, Unwashed, Stone Washed and others. But there was no Stretch. If your jeans were tight — and you cared — you backed off on the Salt and Vinegar potato chips. 

Wait. They didn’t have those then either.

Chicken in a BiskitOK. So, you backed off on the Chicken in a Biskit crackers. Or the Bacon Double Cheeseburgers at Burger King — because they were the only drive thru open after the bars closed.

You backed off until your jeans fit again. Simple as that.

In fact, that has been my mantra for maintaining my weight since my 20’s. I considered it the best advice I ever gave to Morgan as she headed off for college this fall:

Rule #1: Wear your jeans (and not those stupid yoga pants) at least 2x a week for the whole day. Do that and you won’t gain weight.

Actually the conversation took a decidedly different turn than that. I thought that’s what I said, but what she heard was this:

If you gain weight I’m not buying you any more food. You’ll have to buy all your food yourself.

What I actually said was this:

If you gain weight, I’m not buying you new jeans. You’ll have to buy new jeans yourself.

There’s a difference, people. It might still be abusive, but there is a difference.

So imagine my surprise this February when it was me who gained all the weight. What the Hell? I’m wearing my jeans twice a week, just like always! Why does the scale say I’ve gained so much weight?! I pulled out the antique Levi 501’s and holy Hell, they were agonizingly tight.

No wonder Morgan doesn’t listen to anything I say.

The culprit, my friends, is stretch denim. J Brand, Lucky, American Eagle, Red Engine. You name it. I challenge you to find non-stretch denim anywhere anymore.

And here’s an illustration: I can wear a size 10 American Eagle skinny jean and it looks, eh… just fine. And I can wear a fricken size 2 American Eagle skinny jean and it looks, eh… a little tight but just fine. OK, OK, it doesn’t look fine. Skinny jeans in and of themselves are hideous. Nothing like accentuating your big fat thighs coming down to ankles the size of pins. But you know what I mean.

Because they s-t-r-e-t-c-h to accommodate your girth, be it your belly, your thighs, you butt. Whatever. Even your ankles, if you happen to be well endowed below the knee — which I am not, but think it might actually help to make skinny jeans look less freakishly light-bulb shaped…

Anyway.

This isn’t rocket science. Get rid of the stretch denim and you’ve solved the obesity problem.

Check that box and send me to the next world issue. Give me another 8 months to write a blog post, but I’ll be back with an answer.

Pinky swear.

 

 

Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

Do Me a Favor: Take Down your Christmas Decorations

Seriously people.

If I had more time, I’d go around at night snapping pictures of houses light up at night with multi-colored Christmas lights and decked-out Christmas trees in living room windows, googling their addresses and calling them out online.

I just don’t get it.

I know, I know: “I love Christmas. I hate when it’s over.” Blah, blah, blah. Some wait for the Epiphany. Fine. But that’s come and gone too. So do me a favor and take down your Christmas stuff. It’s time.

I know not everyone is like me, taking them down the day after Christmas. I’m not a bah humbugger; I do have a reason. We leave for Hayward after Christmas most years and coming back to the Christmas decorations is just a bad thing. I like the new year to come in cool, clean and clutter-free. The tree and all the accoutrements makes for a wonderfully cozy December mood. But the day the presents get opened, it’s over.

Out with the old.

In with the new.

Except…

I seem to have one small problem…

I just can’t seem…

to have the heart…

to take these another 4 steps…

to the trash!

But I’m getting closer.

Dear Patty: I had a Hair Affair

Watertown is a small place, so I assume Patty is well aware of my transgression by now. But apologizing is part of the twelve steps, so this is the public apology you, my frenetic stylist, deserve.

I have been unfaithful.

I have strayed from our ten year relationship. I had a delayed seven-year itch. It isn’t you. It’s me. I still love you. It didn’t mean anything.

Actually, I was seduced by the bright lights and big city. And the Keratin Smoothing Treatment.

[I seriously did not need to flat iron my roots! Can you believe it? Sorry, I’m sounding too enthusiastic, I know. I need to be contrite.]

And the idea that someone could lend me some new insight on the Bangs Dilemma.

How was it for me? It was fun! It was exciting! Just like an affair should be. [not that I would know about that.] I got to sit in a huge salon. I got to sit in a massage chair! Lisa was great!**

Here was her answer to the Bangs Dilemma.

She gave me a choice: Bangs or Botox. I picked bangs. So I have bangs again. Which is exactly what you’ve been saying to me for seven years. Well, that isn’t entirely true, is it? We both know you first counciled me to grow the suckers out. Then, when you saw what I looked like without bangs, you changed your mind. And I said, “I told you so.” and you said, “You were right.”

Just like an old married couple.

And you will forgive me. Because that’s the way you are. And we’ll go back to bickering about my bangs. And my moisturizer.

But I’m not sure I can give up the Keratin Smoothing Treatment… Which brings me to one more minor detail…

Morgan had a hair affair too.*

Sorry!

*Save yourself the time of telling my how beautiful Morgan’s hair is. I know it is. Her curls are gorgeous. But she has always wanted straight hair. So now, courtesy of Visa, she has it. For about 3 months. Should she ever want it again, she will need a Bachelor’s degree and a good job. And Morgan, save yourself the breath of complaining about that first pic. I included it to show our detractors why you want straight hair. This is what happens when curl meets brush. Thought you straight-hair-curl-wannabes should know that.

**[Lisa Kingrey Johnson at Salon Lili.] –but that’s only a plug for big city folk. Watertownians [and Sheilabird] should stick to Patty like glue. 🙂

 

How Pixi Mascara Saved My Life

You think I’m kidding?

I’m not. Pixi mascara doesn’t just look good, it is a time machine. It has opened doors I thought long closed. I, my friends, am a new person.

First, and most importantly, Pixi mascara allows me to stop manically curling my lashes. Before I discovered it, I would probably grab the eyelash curler 3 or 4 times a day, depending on how often I crossed paths with my make-up bag, and pop it over my stubborn lashes and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Because, you see, my lashes would not stay curled. I tried what seemed like every mascara under the sun. Nothing worked for more than 15 or 20 minutes..

I have such straight lashes that tend to point downward, into my eyes. So I’m not just giving them a 45 degree bend, I’m trying to to achieve a 180 to 270 degree curve. Of course it never works. Here’s a pic using my previous brand of mascara after only a couple minutes. Not too impressive.

Now granted, I don’t spend a whole lot of time on this. I don’t really wear that much make-up. To my make-up-artist in training, I’m all but a blank slate: “Put some make-up on, Mom.”

“I AM wearing make-up!”

(and I really am.)

When I asked her to take these close-ups, she said “Pile it on. You can’t even see it!” Whereas when I actually saw the close-ups I was appalled at how much there appeared to be.

There were many other things I was appalled by, don’t get me wrong: the hooded lids, the crepe paper skin, the stray eyebrows, etc. etc. But whatever.

After about 15 years of using various mascaras that allowed my lashes to stay curled for about 10 minutes before pointing straight out, I picked up a tube of Pixi at target.

It’s not Target-cheap though; it was $18. I was aware of the Pixi brand (and their prices) after having switched from Benetint to Pixi cheek gel several years ago based on the simple virtue that Pixi’s clear red cheek gel looked like Benetint, but didn’t come as a liquid in that Godforsaken glass vial — which I had, on more than one occasion, broken all over my bathroom floor.

Not only did the Pixi cheek gel work just as good, it took up less space in my bag (always a plus) and never dripped on my boob when I applied it (don’t underestimate the importance of this). In short, I love it. I’m on my second tube and each lasts over a year. Well worth the price of $18 — yes, the same as the mascara.)

So, I’m sure you are wondering how Pixi mascara saved my life. Now that I’m knee deep into this story, it does seem a bit heavy-handed, “Saved my life…” How about “Changed my life?” Let’s go with that.

Anyway, I do a lot of standing around in the make-up aisles at Target, but not a lot of buying, because frankly, it all seems rather pointless at 46. Sort of a lost cause… Ironically, late last year, I was mailed a Pixi catalog. A tiny little booklet of marketing wonder promising the most amazing (and ludicrous) things. I read it cover to cover. I was absolutely absorbed by it. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the first person testimonial format they used. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But still.

I come from an advertising background. I’m jaded. And I’m old. I’ve been around the block a few times.

So, in the end, I believed none of it. Not. A. Single. Word.

Until the mascara.

Until.

The.

Mascara.

The catalogue said, and I quote: “lash-lifting,” and “With my straight lashes this is the ONLY mascara that holds the curl all day.”

I didn’t believe it. The fact that I still bought it had more to do with the fact that I had hemmed and hawed over the concealers and brightening creams I had read about in the catalogue for so long, couldn’t decide on any of them and grabbed a tube of mascara instead. I actually needed new mascara and I figured, “How bad could it be?”

Now, I could write the testimonial for the catalogue. I could be the spoke person.

The problem is… now… I am finding myself… wanting to believe everything I read! Covergirl Simply Ageless! Yes! Maybelline Highlighting Concealer! Yes! I’ll take two! …wait, isn’t that an oxymoron? Highlighting Concealer? never mind… Unibrows Worry Line Divot Remover! Yes! I mean, no, but I wish.

So you can see my dilemma, can you not? I’m a changed woman. But this is not necessarily a good thing.

 

[UPDATE TO POST ON 1/21/2012]

Well, now I know what interests you guys. Man, what a bunch of make-up grubbing lunatics you are.

Anyway, in my haste to get this ridiculous entry posted, I left out one teeny weeny detail:

If you haven’t yet run out to Target to pick up the Pixi, add this to your list.

You will need it.

Happy Shopping!