The Woman With The Perfume

The story of the woman with the perfume, the anointing of Jesus, is to be found in all four gospels, Matthew 26, Mark 14, Luke 7, John 12. The story varies slightly depending on who is doing the telling, but the essence of that message remains the same. The depth of meaning in those few short paragraphs, the lessons to be learned there, never cease to amaze me. It is a profound teaching and one that must have made a powerful impression on the disciples.

It's a lovely tale about a woman who takes the finest perfume, very expensive stuff, and pours it on the feet of Jesus and wipes it with her hair. It's a very submissive act, a gentle thing, a sign of great admiration and love, and perhaps longing and regret and grief. Jesus is not going to be with them much longer. Does she know this? I suspect so, some part of her is aware that time is short. She's been saving this perfume for a long time and perhaps she has asked herself, "what am I saving this for?" We do that with our nice things, tuck them away for a special occasion. This is perfume that could have been used for a burial, an attempt to show your honor and respect for somebody you loved that has passed on, but how sad if she had waited. Why should we not pay tribute to the living, let them know how much they mean to us, fill the air with the fragrance of our love?

Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.

The telling of the tale really reveals some things about the nature of men and women, about how we relate to each other, about the different ways we perceive the world. Each version of the event tells you a little bit about what's in the heart of each of those disciples. Matthew and Mark report the disciples were indignant about the woman's act. Luke wants everyone to know she was a sinful woman, a woman in that town who lived a sinful life. Some report she anointed Christ's head, some report His feet, most likely she did both.

John tells us about Judas Iscariot who is particularly peeved, on account of the fact that he has been dipping into the money bag and helping himself. Judas, who would later betray Jesus, is quick to point fingers and condemn this woman. In his eyes, she's just wasted the equivalent of a years wages, precisely his own sin. He himself has been siphoning off money, wasting it so to speak.

That is the teaching that really resonates with me in the re-telling of this event, the way we tend to judge others through the eyes of our own sin. We do like to project our own flaws and faults onto other people, almost as if they were mirror images of our own selves, and when we see our own selves reflected in another, we are often rather horrified by what we see.

"...whoever has been forgiven little, loves little."

Judas sees waste in this woman and thievery. Luke sees her alleged sinful past, likely of a sexual nature. John is amusing, he wants us to know that Martha was busy serving, while this woman apparently was not. But Martha is doing all the work, while this other woman is getting all the attention!

What Christ sees is incredibly profound. He sees everything, each of them attempting to project their own sin upon this woman. He also sees the beauty at his feet, the tribute she is paying to Him, the love she is showing. He knows what is in her heart too, and He does not let the disciples make ugly what she has done.

That taking of what is beautiful and attempting to make it ugly is such a typical and rather unpleasant characteristic of human beings. Jesus tells Luke, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown...whoever has been forgiven little, loves little."

She loves greatly, deeply, passionately, because she knows her own self, she knows her own sins, and she understands the depth and the power of Christ's love, the true meaning and value of forgiveness and acceptance and mercy.

Those who do not are simply caught in a pride trap, carrying a burden far too heavy for us to carry alone, so we are compelled to try and share the misery with others. The sad thing about that is that even if other people try to lay beauty at your feet, you cannot see it, because all you can see is your own self down there, looking back at you with eyes full of condemnation and judgement.

Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.

Marriage and Security Blankets

There's a memory from  long ago when the kids were small, about a terrible mother and Horrible, No Good Very Bad Thing. You see, we had this pink blankie with satin trim about the edges that went everywhere with us. It drug itself through sticky spilt soda, brushed passed discarded bubble gum, and wiped the snot off of runny noses, until it was no longer pink but a rather sickly shade of grey, with stiff spots about it. Its name was Fifi and when it went missing we could actually locate it by smell, a bit like one would hone in the signal of a lost cell phone coming from  between the couch cushions. It smelled of sour milk, public streets, and fermented apple juice.

One day this awful mother
who truly despised her children who wished to reduce the sheer volume of germs her children were being immersed in, decided to give Fifi a bath. Fifi cleaned up beautifully, soft, pink, and fuzzy once again, with shiny satin edges. Fifi was so grateful to be resorted to her former glory, she just glowed with pristine pink vibrancy.

And then the shrieking began.

"What happened to Fifi?? You've ruined Fifi! It's awful, It smells like...laundry soap! How could you?? I hate you, you're the worst mother ever!"

After two hours of apologies, of carefully applied reason, of slammed doors, and small accusing eyes full of condemnation, Hubby comes home to his tearful kid, now rather pathetically sucking her thumb and mourning the loss of Fifi. Naturally he is full of comfort and sympathy and begs to hear the whole story.

"I hate her, she ruined Fifi," is the tearful reply.

So Hubby turns to the Very Bad No Good Mother, eyes full of accusation and condemnation and says,  "How could you? You've ruined Fifi!" Hubby being well known for his completely reasonable requests, thrusts the blanket in her hands and demands, "Now...unwash it!"

It's a bit amusing, what is going through Hubby's head at this moment? As is rather typical of men, nothing much. He's thinking he's tired from working all day, his kid is distressed and sobbing, and he vaguely longs for the smell of a long forgotten Fifi of his own. Also, he's impressed with himself for having just fixed a simple problem.

Oh, but not true of the Very Bad, No Good Mother, oh no, she's processing bits of data at record breaking speed, speeds that would make a super computer envious. She's thinking, "My life is now in the hands of a six year old. My rock, the man who is supposed to protect me is showing and appalling amount of disloyalty. Betrayal, immaturity, failure to protect, weakness, irrationality, undermining, nix, nix, nix, bad man, very bad man...."

Hubby is thinking, "I can hardly wait to get my hands on the remote control."

Naturally the kid is now curled up contentedly with the destroyed Fifi, looking at the Very Bad, No Good Mother smugly.  "I won," her eyes say.

Ah yes, you won alright, but someday you'll have children of your own and I'll get the last laugh. Good things come to those who wait patiently.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

Having now read a dozen blogs about the horrors of being a woman walking in the rape culture, (hashtag#YESALLMENBAD) and watching the most pathetic celebration of oppression Olympics ever, I’m compelled to respond. One flat out got my goat, leaving me partially furious because of the deception she presents and partially empathetic because of the self-delusion she now seems trapped in.

“Blogging Girl”, who is precisely the same height and weight as I am, goes walking everywhere in a noble attempt to fight off poundage and encounters no less than 50 men (#YESALLMENBAD) who call her fat and declare her sea-worthy, (or c-worthy, if you get my drift.) Poor girl walks a gauntlet of horrific verbal abuse every day, just trying to exercise. Except she doesn’t, not really. I have watched a
naked man with a machete manage to attract a crowd of nearly 20, half of whom were law enforcement officers. Stark naked as a jay bird! See, most of us don’t care. We flat out don’t care. We have things to do, places to go, and if you’re passed out drunk on the sidewalk, we’ll simply step over you. It’s called the fallen log in the forest phenomenon, not one of our better qualities, but humans can only take in so much information before our brains render people invisible.

There is no way in hades you managed to attract the attention of 50 men who dropped everything they were doing to stop and inform you were fat, stupid, ugly, and shouldn’t be out walking.(#YESALLMENBAD) I ain’t buying it. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but you just are not the center of that many people’s universe. Well over two hundred people have now validated your victimhood, affirmed your feelings of persecution, confirmed your perception of a cold and sexist world. Now that is kind of cruel.

Come on girl, take a walk on the wild side with me and embrace the misogyny.

I walk through the world like Snow White trilling to the forest creatures, seriously. Schizophrenic guy stops talking to himself for a moment and tips his hat  when I pass. There’s a veteran on the corner with no legs who always looks up, smiles at me, and says thank you, and I’ve never put a dime in his hat. There’s a group of young black guys that hang out in front of a coffee shop, but they’re so busy trying to keep their pants up and walk with their shoes untied, they pay no attention to me. 

I haven’t opened a door for myself in decades, except when I’m out with hubby. It’s a bit amusing, but that man loves to drop a door on me now and than. I roll my eyes, but in truth it always makes me smile. I know exactly what he’s doing. Men have been opening doors for me for so long if one wasn’t around I’d probably stand there and look stupid trying to figure out why the door won’t open.

A few weeks ago I had a brake light out. No less than six men stopped to make sure I knew about it. Two more left a note on my car. Perfect strangers, trying to protect me from a ticket. It actually started to get embarrassing, so I fixed the light.

Retired Navy guy likes to jog in traffic. He’s always in formation, chin up, face frozen, but his eyes always dart my way. He’s alert, well aware of my presence. The other day I raised an eyebrow in response to his darting eyes and he lost it and nearly smirked.

Last week this old guy sat down on a bench next to me and started showing me pictures of a girl from 60 years ago, long gone now. He had a yellowed love letter he had written her half a century ago, that he wanted to read to me. It was so poignant, so heart breaking, I had to go cry when he left. Lost loves from another century, remembered in every precious detail.

There’s a young guy who patrols the parking lot, a bit autistic. He introduced himself and informed me that he likes girls, he really likes girls, so he spends his days looking out for them. He fancies himself as a white knight with an important job to do. I’ve never seen him do anything inappropriate, except smile and wink at girls from 30 ft away. Sometimes they sit down on the sidewalk with him and tell him their troubles. “Her husband is a jerk,” he tells me. “That one drinks too much,” he says. “She doesn’t know how pretty she is,” he says sadly, and I nearly choke because she isn’t at all, but when I look in his eyes, I see the innocence there. He really sees her as beautiful. Dang.

Men cannot truly be misogynists. It’s impossible. They are biologically bound to women in a kind of symbiosis. Men can be jerks, be insensitive, be downright dangerous, but they cannot truly be misogynists. Misogyny is the fear and hatred of women. Men do not fear women. And they cannot hate us for very long, either. What people perceive as misogyny in men is actually a fascinating projection, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. “Misogyny” in men is an illusion, because it’s not fear and hatred of women, it’s actually self loathing. Men who appear to hate women, really hate themselves, not us.

There is an inequality there, an unfairness, but it’s not women who get the short end of the stick this time.

Come on girl, walk on the wild side with me and embrace the misogyny, because it surely can’t be any worse than the world you’re already walking in.

Women Cannot Open Doors

Every now and then some  egghead decides to reject a guy attempting to open a door for her with the rather haughty declaration, “women can open doors for themselves you know!”

No, no we cannot. Women are completely incapable of opening doors for ourselves.

When we are confronted with a door that doesn’t magically open, we will gather in front of it and stand there puzzled. You see this all the time, women gathered in entryways chatting, filing their nails, sending texts, playing Candy Crush. It’s such a huge problem that many stores simply put in automatic doors with pads that you step on. This makes the doors magically open for us so we are no longer bottlenecked in the entryway awaiting the arrival of some man who knows how to operate a door properly.

This inability to enter buildings without assistance can be a real disability. There are many places in the world that are simply unavailable to us because we cannot navigate the doorway. I find it to be a great inconvenience. Sometimes I have to stand in a doorway for five or six minutes awaiting the arrival of some off duty hunky fireman to come along and help me access the building.

Doors are hard. I don’t know if anybody has ever played video games, but when faced with a door that won’t open, some women can spend 8-10 hours trying to solve the riddle. Some women will simply give up in frustration and exchange the game for one that has no doors in it at all.

The other day I encountered a door that was so challenging, so intricate, it actually took three men to open it for me. I was a bit embarrassed to have caused such an inconvenience. No, no I wasn’t embarrassed at all…

Whenever somebody complains about having a door held open for them the only proper response is, “Than why are you standing in my way looking stupid? Lead, follow or get out of the way!”

Balls of Wire and Little Boxes

There’s a guy, Mark Gungor, who gives a delightful presentation about the difference between men and women’s brains. He says men’s brains are like little boxes that must never, ever touch each other. Ever. Every thought is processed and carefully placed in it’s own little box. Women’s brains however, are like electrified balls of wire, each bit of data zinging around to see how it is related to other bits of data. Every thought has a relationship to another and like an internet search engine, it pings around constantly looking for connections.

If you’ve ever been in a room full of women, we can congruently talk about a variety of seemingly unrelated issues, zapping each other with little sparks of imagination, almost like bug lights on a porch. A group of women who really know each other can practically speak their own language. Shoes-meatballs-Putin-PigLatin-4thGrade, yes, I so completely understand what you’re saying. What incredible insights you have! 

If you are a woman, a fairly intelligent and emotional one, you have the power to walk into a room and completely flatten men’s brains. You can crash the whole system, over whelm them with data, and watch those little boxes go poof. If you’re really good at it, you can set those boxes on fire. Fortunately men can recover from this fairly quickly, by backing up slowly and rebooting their brains. Otherwise we’d leave a bunch of collateral damage laying around, with puffs of blue smoke coming out of their ears, like I did to my last two hard drives.

Flattening man-brains is actually bad manners and should be avoided as much as possible. In retaliation, men often try to poke their finger in our brains to see if they can short out the system. This is also not nice and should be avoided, no matter how much you enjoy it. Men can short out our brains but it’s temporary and once we come back online, we will zap you. Remember the 1944 movie Gaslight? The bad guy completely shorted out her brain and convinced her she was crazy. When she was able to reboot her brain, she tied him to a chair and those little neurons pinged from crazy to…not guilty by 

reason of insanity. Be afraid, be very afraid, this is precisely how women’s brains work.

 

I jest here, because for the most part, the differences between men and women’s brains is one of the most delightful things ever. There is much complaint regarding the word subdue. People tend to think it means to suppress, dominate, control. In some contexts it does, but in this context it has a different meaning. It’s actually a very gentle word that means to calm, to sooth, to soften.  The roots of the word subdue go way back, but in old French, it’s taken from suduire, to seduce. Gender is not just biology, it is energy. It is the way we process data and how we perceive the world. It is how our brains operate, not in a hierarchy of superior/inferior, but simply different and complimentary, and quite magical. Men have the ability to sooth, to soften, to quiet women’s brains.

When men walk into a room full of women, I have a feeling most men have no idea how aware women are of their presence. We may appear to completely ignore them, but men are never invisible to us. Never. A dozen little antenna pop up and start processing the data. “Something is different here, the energy in the room has changed, one of these things is not like the other. What is he doing? Is he…compartmentalizing data? How odd!” Women are like natural born scientists, constantly doing research, testing, experimenting, quietly observing the beast in his natural habitat. It’s our thing. We’re so good at it, most of the time we aren’t even aware of it.

Naturally there are individual variations and gender is not always so rigid. Women are quite capable of reasoning, using logic, being objective, and sometimes we actually compartmentalize information. Men are also capable of making connections, relating one piece of seemingly unrelated data to another. The truth however, is that for the most part, we don’t really like to. I don’t care how many lies the world tries to tell us, we are simply different. When we deny our own natures, we’re actually rejecting ourselves, sacrificing the very best of our own essence.

Now for the bad news. Men have something women don’t. They have a box, their favorite box. It’s called the empty box. It’s their happy place, the box they go into when they’re hunting TV channels with the remote, blissfully unaware that women even exist. Women have no such box, we’re never satisfied, never finished. Our happy place is when the energy flows effortlessly through that ball of wire and meets no resistance. In the comedic tragedy of it all, a few moments of that and we start to get uncomfortable, distressed. Our happy place does not really exist internally, we experience it vicariously through men. Oh, we could live without them in the world for a while, but eventually we’d short ourselves out and self destruct. Never being able to rest in your happy place is a bit like going without sleep. It can be done, but eventually you’ll break and start seeing rats.

Men and women live in a type of symbiotic relationship that expands far beyond reproduction. We are like mirrors looking back at each other. One of my favorite sci/fi guys once did a post about “Women as Parasite” that made me think of intestinal worms. Do it again dude and I will flatten your boxes, set them on fire, and sweep the ashes out the door. He wasn’t entirely wrong however, women are a bit like orchids clinging to a decaying log. There is beauty and life in the symbiosis of that relationship. Separate the two and there is nothing but death and decay, pointless decomposition that nourishes nothingness.

Gender is not a social construct people, it is our energy and our essence, and it is hardwired into the system.

Observing My Husband in His Natural Habitat

If women’s brains are a bit like hamsters running on a wheel, it should be said that men make the most delightful lab rats. Women are, after all, natural born scientists, the whole world like our laboratory. For the most part, we are always observing, experimenting, testing theories, and on rare occasions, proving ourselves not only wrong, but downright stupid.

Science, registered trademark, is a compulsion of mine. I could not stop observing and testing theories even if I wanted to. Naturally biology, the science of love, is my favorite. Observing people can be quite fascinating.

I am compelled to document and share this week’s research, even though my husband would likely kill me, metaphorically of course, if he knew I were blogging about him. Regardless, in the interest of science, risks must be taken, sacrifices must be made.

Monday, 4 AM: test subject appears irritable, uncertain if this is some kind of territorial thing or due to our kitchen being too small. I wisely retreat behind the purple lilies in the dining room to observe from a safer distance. Now camouflaged, invisible, I resist the urge to intervene, even though the test subject appears to be making coffee all wrong. So very wrong. So. Very. Wrong. I am now practically sitting on my hands, resisting the urge to speak, watching my emotions float by while I desperately seek to regain my objective brain….

Monday 4:20 AM: the introduction of coffee to the experiment seems to have had a calming affect on him…and on me. Subject is now in possession of the remote control, stalking TV channels like prey to be hunted. I hear snatches of conversation as he methodically rejects each one. I inadvertently glance at the remote. He catches my eye and growls softly. Yep, I have good instincts, that territorial issue I observed in the kitchen? It’s a real thing. Got it, do not even look at MY remote.

Monday 4:35 AM: The sound of his coffee cup hitting the marble table startles me. He does it again as if he’s knocking two sticks together trying to make fire. Subject has apparently not yet developed any language skills. Perhaps in another hour… I sigh and take his cup to the kitchen for a refill. Prior observation has taught me that his cup will continue to rattle on the table every few minutes if it doesn’t have something in it. I don’t know what possesses me, but I bring his cup back and slam it down nearly as hard as he did. He glances up and grins at me, eyes twinkling. It’s a smile that lights up the room, a smile I would die for. I speak the first words of the day. “You’re such a jerk,” I say, but that’s not what I’m thinking at all.

Monday 5:40 AM: He’s calling me again, from the farthest part of the house. I weave my way past shoes on the floor, stacks of folded clothes, past the washing machine, through the kitchen, across the vast expanse of our dining room, until finally I arrive at our front door. He smiles again, that smile I live for, and says sweetly, “would you like the remote?” Wait..is the subject offering me his most prized tool?? There is some sort of ritual happening here that I do not understand, but I carefully reach for the remote before he quickly snatches it away. Oh, I get it, a game! I love games. Since I do not know the rules of this game, I decide to distract him with a kiss and sneak the remote out of his hands. It works! Mission accomplished.

I return to the house, now in full possession of this home’s most valuable asset, the TV remote. Alone now, I pour myself another cup of coffee and stare at the thing like a mystery waiting to be solved.

I scratch my head and realize I am completely clueless as to it’s purpose. I point the thing at the television and as if in perfect synchronicity, a perky news girl announces, “studies have proven that in healthy homes, mother’s control the remote 68% of the time.” I ponder this bit of information for a moment, imagining shooting the beast with a tranquilizer dart, wresting the remote from his unconscious hands. 

Observation has taught me that even when sleeping, the subject has one eye open and can move surprisingly fast. Perhaps like one of our modern day fem heroines, I could don a cat suit and drop kick my way to the remote?

I smile coldly, suddenly aware of the power of what I hold in my hands. Healthy homes, indeed. How dare you, my little twit? I aim my weapon at perky news girl and cut her off mid sentence, smirking as she dissolves into a million tiny pixels......

The Return of a King

As Christians we have the book of Revelations, Doomsday Preppers have the zombie apocalypse, but I keep having have the most delightful dream.

I’m in my house in a near panic, tearing through boxes and chests, trying to find the finest silver, the most elegant brass. The little silver sugar bowl with the tiny spoon, the carved copper plate, the brass incense burner, small metal knick knacks collected over the years. I regret not having polished them but it is too late now. I grab my grandmother’s linen table cloth, yellowed with age, somehow knowing I must have genuine linen, but not understanding why. I shake the yellow right out of it and it becomes as white as snow. As if I’m off to a picnic, I toss small metal treasures onto the cloth and gather it up like a knapsack. Rushing towards the door I spot the lace curtain that hangs on the front window. Without hesitation I tear a square off and cover my head. The piece of lace feels ridiculous, inadequate, dirty, but I am going to greet a King and it is protocol. What I look like will not matter, it’s the thought that counts.

Outside I look left and quickly fall to the ground. Coming down the hills on a winding road I’ve never seen before, are thousands of white horses, white knights, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. I can hear their hoof beats and see them kicking up this black dust that is beginning to swirl, a roaring darkness that charges down the edges of their path.

From far away I can hear faint shrieks and smell panic in the air. “Do not fear,” I pray desperately. “Fear is the enemy, you need not fear. Fear is misery, fear is death, do not fear.” I’m chanting this like a mantra, not for myself, but because I know those who are suffering are bringing their own misery down upon themselves. “We are going to have a feast, a glorious feast, fear not or you will miss it.” There is an ache there, a sadness, and I am trying not to cry. I spread my linen upon the ground and carefully arrange my metal treasures to distract myself. The sound of those hoof beats is drawing closer.

I look up and down my street and see thousands of people on their knees like I am, white linen spread before them, cradling gifts for a King. I do not understand the significance of the metal treasures being offered but I notice we are all on the same page. I also wonder where all these people came from. I recognize a few neighbors, but most of these people are strangers to me. And then I spot her. She’s decked out in purple, head to toe, on her knees in front of her linen patch like the rest of us, but her linen has bits of purple ribbon and lace artfully arranged around the treasures. She catches my eye and winks at me. I gulp and try to swallow the surrealism of it all, because she is a dear friend who passed away several years ago. My brain is struggling to rationalize her presence, very much real, very much alive. Fear not, I whisper to myself this time.

“Remember to breathe,” she mouths to me.

The first of the horses are arriving down the street and I see them carefully taking note of each person and the gifts they present. I’m focused on nothing but my breathing at this point as the riders arrive, scan my treasures, and pass me by. I don’t know how much time passes but the horses just flow down the street like a river, thousands of them, roaring by.

Finally I see the King coming towards me on a white horse. He is looking at me now, not smiling at all but His eyes are, His countenance is. I can tell he is pleased as He pauses and looks down at me. There is an elegance to Him, a formality, an antiquity, that is hard to describe. I look up and meet His eyes and suddenly the dirty lace on my head becomes the most delicate veil, hand embroidered and softly blue. I am so excited and yet my heart is not racing at all. It’s the most peaceful, most beautiful feeling in the world. And then He’s gone. The third rider behind the King slows to look at me, smiles, and says, “you have a feast to prepare and wine to mingle.”

“Wait, is it finished?” I ask. He calls back over his shoulder, “Oh no, we’re only getting started!”

 

Honestly, I have no idea how to mingle wine, but I know I have been chosen for a great honor. To prepare a wedding feast fit for a King, the King of Kings. Not a Lamb at all this time around, but rather a Lion......

The Very Bad Worst Thing of All

I often think of unrequited love as being the most awful thing ever, all that angst and misery, the drowning of sorrows in chocolate ice cream, like a rather futile attempt to sweeten the bitterness. When it comes to the human capacity for melodrama nothing is more inspiring than, "he loves me, he loves me not." Girls tend to sink into it more, eating everything in the refrigerator, downing boxes of wine, sub-texting passive/ aggressive diddies on face book. Or, for a more elegant touch, throwing all his clothes out on the front lawn and setting them on fire. Men are no slouches in the melodrama department either, although they tend to perceive themselves as more dignified in their despair, as if it is not quite as pathetic to be downing shots of whiskey and texting your alleged indifference to random strangers on the internet.

Unrequited love however, is nothing but a pin prick on the continuum of misery that marks the human experience. The most awful thing of all is to be surrounded by a crowd of people and feel so unbearably lonely, it is worse than being alone. That feeling of disconnection from the rest of the human race is a bit like feeling as if you were an alien visitor that just crashed on a planet full of stupid people. You are now doomed to spend eternity with those who cannot even speak the language, indeed, lack the intellectual curiosity required to even desire communication.

Intelligence is a burden, it socially alienates you. Some learn how to hide their intelligence, how to shield their eyes, how to feed people what they want to hear. Most learn at least once or twice what it's like to be surrounded by people and feel that painful and lonely disconnect from the rest of humanity. I hate to sound so cynical, but social skills are quite simple, they are comprised of your ability to tell lies and the skills required to hide your intelligence. The triple social curse is intelligence, a compulsion to speak the truth, and an unwillingness to apologize for who you are.

Intelligence aside, most of us are familiar with loneliness. We've met the beast. Some of us have visited that hellish place where you are surrounded by people and suddenly realize you are so painfully, unbearably lonely. Sometimes when I am having big thoughts, I wonder if this is how God feels and why He created us in the first place. Is it odd to try and empathize with God? Probably, but it's something I've done for a long time and since there is nothing new under the sun, no doubt others before me have done it much better. I try to empathize with God, I wonder what it must be like to put up with us, to spend thousands of years watching people make the same breathtakingly stupid mistakes over and over again. I wonder what it must be like to be the most intelligent and powerful Being in the universe, constantly challenged by those who seem to believe they are capable and qualified to improve on Your design. I ponder what it must be like to listen to us simultaneously curse God while pleading for His help and trying to deny His existence.

And than I am comforted by the fact that God knows that the opposite of love is not hatred, it's indifference, that frozen numbness we seek at the bottom of the chocolate ice cream carton.

Insanitybytes

When attempting to understand a bass akwards world being run by clowns, being a moron is a definite advantage, wouldn’t you say? Intelligence is not much help when trying to relate to The Stupid. In fact, it gets in the way. Smart people have a tendency to be so consumed with the idolatry of their own intellect, they can miss what is right in front of them. Like a wise man once said, they also tend to think up problems that don’t even exist. Smart people are funny, they can walk face first into trees while pondering the nature of objective reality. Then they’ll be too busy analyzing the humor of the situation to find it funny.

So here’s how being a girl pays off. When it comes to The Stupid, nobody can do it better than women. No matter how intelligent the girl, our capacity to be downright dumb knows no rival. I mean that with the utmost affection and complete delight over the nature of women, of which I am one. There’s no embarrassment here in knowing I am capable of being blind as a bat and downright dumb. In fact, some of the dumbest things I ever did have delivered the most dividends. Child birth for instance. Intelligence is nothing but a matter of perspective.

In a crazy chaotic world run by evil clowns, insanity can also be a form of self defense. It’s a bit of a paradox,  but being sane in an insane world is well, insane. It’s neither rational nor reasonable to calmly accept what is going on all around you, and if you live on this planet, chances are good you will be surrounded by the crazy. You know who really scares me? People who think they’re sane, which is another paradox, because if you think you’re sane, you probably aren’t. In fact, there’s probably something really wrong with you. Dear Lord, protect us from all the crazy people who think they’re sane…

It’s a mad, mad world, filled with chaos and confusion. Those who think they do good, often do great evil. Those who think they’re evil may well be some of the most morally upright people walking the planet. Smart people are often silent while the dumbest among us always seem to set out to change the world. I don’t get it, I don’t pretend to get it, but I do know that clarity comes when you learn to embrace the crazy and consider the possibility that you may indeed, be a moron.

Somebody prompted, what would you say to an alien visitor who had just landed on this planet? I’d say, “we’re mostly all mad here. Long story involving toadstools, blue potions, and Cheshire cats. Stay away from the rabbit holes. Beware the evil clowns, they run this circus, but the Mad Hatter throws a hellacious tea party. Sorry about the rules, but they’re subject to change without notice.”

Rave Reviews

“..writes remarkably malicious things full of bile..”
..”intentionally maligning people’s character day in and day out… ”
“…distasteful and deplorable…”
“…uses bad  reasoning…”
“…full of warped perceptions and incompatible beliefs, obviously delusional and incapable of rational thought…”
“… promoting appalling stereotypes that will eventually lead to the fall of mankind….”
“… I hate you! I really hate you! You wither crops and shame our grandmothers…..”
“…. nothing but a whinging sanctimonious hypocrite..”
“…you must find looking in the mirror to hard to bare. How awful to be you…”
“…don’t you think that it would be better if you just stopped blogging?”

“..vulgar and deeply offensive words that show tragic brain damage….”