The chronic malcontent cavorts on Easter Sunday

When the sun shines, people in Portland come out of their burrows and cavort. On Easter Sunday, they cavort in fancy clothes. I just got back from a trot (my version of cavorting) in Mt. Tabor Park and saw numerous women (and a couple of men) attempting to navigate steep dirt trails in platform shoes and long skirts.

I don't know what it is about sunshine, but whatever it is, it was magnified today by Easter Sunday. Dueling drum circles of pot-smoking druids at the summit; teenagers in saggy pants standing around on restroom roofs like goats, clutching skateboards; women wrapped in flowered shawls and proudly sporting competing Easter bonnets; gleaming newly washed cars cruising for parking spots along the edges of the park's winding roads; family picnics, complete with hibachis and mouth watering odors; and a few runners, ears plugged with music, weaving in and out of the crowds. Sunday + sunshine + Easter = pandemonium at the park.

The reservoir that the young hoodlum urinated next to last week still slowly drains. It takes a while to drain 38 million gallons of water. It's so silly: A few ounces of pee in or near 38 million gallons of water won't cause any problems for anyone. Hell, we don't complain about bird crap. Portland has excellent drinking water. Too bad these 100-year-old reservoirs will soon be retired in favor of covered storage. I am sad to contemplate what will they will be used for next. Skate parks, probably. Shooting ranges. Miniature golf.

This maniacal Easter madness perplexes me. I don't consider myself a Christian, maybe that's why. I believe my family was marginally Presbyterian. However, we weren't devout; we weren't even interested: My mother liked to sing in the choir. She dragged us, her four adamantly unwilling children, to the big gray church and stashed us in Sunday school to get rid of us while she sang in the sanctuary (four screaming kids, I can imagine, relief at last!). In Sunday school, from well-meaning young white women in cotton dresses and flesh-toned pantyhose, I heard blood-curdling tales that convinced me Christianity is a cruel religion. You mean they pounded nails into that poor guy's hands and feet and hung him up to die? What kind of a society does that? These stories certainly left an impression on this six-year-old. I found no solace in the church of my mother.

I'm not ranting about religion, Christian or otherwise. That's a useless endeavor, even if I could figure out what I was upset about (too many people in my park!). If there is a god, I choose to believe he/she/it gave us all free will. I prefer to exercise mine by avoiding all the pointless ritual and arbitrary rigor that organized religion demands of its followers. Just give me universal healthcare, education, and adequate nutrition, cradle to grave, and I'm happy. And some sunshine doesn't hurt, either.

Get on down to the spiritual axiom

As the teachers left yesterday after day classes, they wished each other a happy Easter. One said, “Have a happy Easter, if you celebrate Easter,” leaving room for those of us who might be pagans, wiccans, heathens, addicts, non-Christians, and generic ne'er-do-wells.

I said nothing, my usual response to all things religious. I have no opinion on Easter, one way or another. Isn't this the day that Jesus was supposed to rise from the dead? Likely story. More likely the guy just looked dead. What a shock to wake up buried alive in a cave. Roll away the stone, let me outa here! From there, it's not too hard to picture the responses of the locals to his unexpected resurrection: It's a miracle! And the rest is history.

I have memories of some Easters in my history. Well, not really memories, per se. I've seen black and white Kodak photos of my sister and me, sitting on the backyard swing-set squinting into the sun, ages about three and five, attired for church in pastel dresses, flowered bonnets, white patent leather shoes, and little white gloves. My sister displays all her baby teeth at the camera, while my smile is somewhat more circumspect, bordering on insipid.

I remember an Easter procession at the church, in which all the children carried daffodils to the alter, to create a big dazzling yellow cross. I think I've blogged about this before. My daffodil had yet to fully open; I was mortified. That feeling of shame is embedded into my genes.

I'm happy that this Sunday is Easter because the callers that usually call me on Sunday afternoons will be off doing their holiday thing with family, and I will have time to work on my dissertation proposal. Yeah, the massive beast is still hanging around, like a overfed, lazy cat, hogging the blankets and polluting the air with dust and dandruff. No, wait, that's me... huh? The good news is, after 150 pages and at least that many sources, I think I've almost got a good first draft. I hope to finish it and upload the monster into cyberspace sometime on Easter Sunday, if I can keep my neck away from the spiritual axiom.

This weekend the temperature should hit 70° for the first time this year. Everyone is excited, of course. All over town, Portlanders are breaking out their shorts, tanktops, and flipflops, bicycles, skateboards, walking shoes. Overnight my sleepy little village corner will turn into a pedestrian-infested, car-congested carnival of park-goers and cafe-mongers. Their music, their voices, their cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes will all waft into my windows on the not-quite-balmy spring breeze. What can I do, I have no defense. I have to open my windows: My place smells like an old gym sock.

Speaking of people who smell like old gym socks, what is with my obese female students smelling like mold? Really? Is it an environmental problem or a hygiene problem? What would happen if I asked them, “Why do you smell like mold?” They would probably look at me and reply, “Why do you smell like an old gym sock?” Then I would try to explain how I haven't vacuumed in a year because I've been working on my doctorate. They would retort, “Well, I work full-time, and I have three kids, no husband, and I live with my mother!” Okay, enough said. Forget I said anything. I won't ask about your stinky body odor if you won't mention mine.

I imagine all my obese female students wearing pastel mini-skirts, low-cut tops, and platform spike heels, tottering off to church this Sunday to celebrate the rising of an almost-dead guy. I'll be celebrating, too, in my own way, by typing a lot of incoherent words and phrases into pages and pages of white space. It's a religious experience, in a way. Especially that moment when I upload the wretched tome and cry to heaven, “Thank god almighty, free for the 21 days it takes my Chair to read and destroy my paper—at last!”

My blog has been invaded by Russians

Not many people visit my blog, not surprisingly, because I've only told a handful of people that it exists. Duh. But for some odd reason, I seem to have an inordinately large number of visitors from Russia. Now, it could be that it is a technological fluke, a lost crawler-bot thingie searching for hot Wisconsin babes that somehow got diverted to a blog by an anonymous malcontent in the Pacific Northwest. I'll be the first to admit I don't know how the Internet works, any more than I know how my phone works, or my microwave. However, I find it hard to believe that something about my blog is especially appealing to Russians.

Russia is such a geographically huge place. I am sure it must be teeming with myriad cultures, just like in the U.S. Is it impossible to imagine there is a little niche of Russians in some out of the way place that is hungry to read a snively, snarky blog about nothing? ... Nah.

Well, the fact remains that my blog is being visited by Russians. I need to consider the fact that I might be writing for a Russian audience! Holy crap. Now I'm wondering if I need to explain my idioms. (Like I even know what an idiom is.) My English sucks. (Sucks, you know, like... sucks. Blows. Bites. Oh, hell.) Maybe if they see the picture they'll get it.

I can't imagine Russians are going to care about the story I am about to tell. But whatever. (You know, whatever? Like, who gives a sh--t?)

Here's my story. Saturday morning I trundled down the freeway to a spot on the map called Tualatin, just south of Portland. It is a real city, apparently, but if you blink as you drive south on I-5 you'll miss it. From the freeway it looks like a shopping center.

Two freeways converge near Tualatin: I-5 and I-205. I-205 meanders (at 65 mph) through some farmlands. Just before you get to the freeway interchange, off to the right, suddenly looms a ginormous church. You know it is a church because it has a huge, I mean huge, cross on a towering edifice facing the properly nervous drivers who speed up as they pass by on the freeway. I'm sure many of them reflect on that gigantic cross and think something along the lines of, wow, nice digs God. Way to go, Big Guy, please don't hurt me, don't hurt me, I'm a speck, going now... bye. Whew.

That church was my destination.

I don't generally frequent churches, except during non-church hours to go to 12 Step meetings. I usually get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach when I set foot in a church. Probably it's the memory of being six-years-old, relegated to Presbyterian Sunday School while my mother entertained herself by singing in the choir. There was too much Jesus-said-this and God-said-that and not enough Vanilla Wafers and Play-doh, both of which I ate with quiet desperation while I stared blankly at the tediously perky, perfectly coiffed Sunday School teacher.

The reason for my visit to the church: Graduation day at the career college. I was required to attend. It is part of my job, twice a year. (Can I claim worker abuse?) To haul my ass out of bed early on a Saturday morning, to burn my gasoline fumbling my way to BumF-k Tualatin, and, insult to injury, to be forced to don the academic equivalent of a monkey suit... Really, it's too much. That last one is the worst. It's like Halloween in June: a long black polyester graduation gown and a black mortarboard cap. On the bright side, though, the gown hides a veritable plethora of amenities in its sleeves: keys, hankie, cell phone, wallet, mp3 player, earbuds... (I could tuck more in there but I want to be able to waddle down the aisle.)

My stomach was clenched as I parked my car in the vast parking lot and hiked up to the institutional-sized building. Which door, which door? Oh that really big one. (Ok, yes, I'm an insignificant speck in the mind of god, I get it.)

The church auditorium was a huge cavernous space filled with padded seats arranged stadium-style. Balconies stretched above into the dark. It was like being in the Capitol Building of the U.S. Congress. I imagine the screams of angry babies and the screams of angry senators sound pretty much the same. Great acoustics, I will say that. I could hear a baby fart in the upper balcony from the very front row, where my coworker (I'll call her Sheryl) and I sat in a row that had only two seats, far to the left of the stage. (I guess you'd call that stage right. I don't know, I'm not a drama queen. Well, not that kind of drama queen.) Anyway, we were sitting in the front row because it was our job to rise at the appropriate cue, ascend the podium to the lectern, and deliver the Alpha Beta Kappa awards to the four students who managed to attend 95% of their classes for the past 18 months. (I know! What an accomplishment, to actually show up for class almost every time! Of course they deserved a special award.)

I won't bore you with the sordid details of the moment when the emcee—no wait, sorry, the Vice President of Academics—called the name of some other teacher instead of our names, leaving Sheryl and me milling around like a couple of ants whose cake just got moved. Wha? Huh? I won't tell you how I dropped the fancy red cords on the carpeted steps as I was trying to untie the gold thread that bound them together. I won't describe to you how greatly relieved I felt to finally stagger up the aisle at the end of the ceremony, thinking I would soon be on my way home, only to find out the fiends from hell—no wait, the Academic Coordinators—had arranged a reception, which required all the faculty to spread out in a great big circle in the huge atrium foyer area, like we were getting ready to play a game of academic dodge ball. I won't confess here that I sneaked (snuck?) away to the restroom, and hid behind the chaos of the crowd as I edged out the door, peeling layers as I went. I ran down the steps like a bat out of hell, black gown flapping behind me, free at last, thank god almighty, out of this church, free at last.

Of course, all I had to look forward to at home was the seemingly never-ending uphill struggle to re-write my dissertation concept paper, but that is another story. Welcome to the Hellish Handbasket, all you Russian folks. I hope you find something here that keeps you coming back.

Organized religions are marketing machines run by hucksters seeking market share

My last post probably sounded like I was softening up. Do I sound malcontented now? I am beyond malcontented. I'll tell you why, not that you care. I'm past malcontented, verging on infuriated. My Internet connection evaporated 20 minutes after it started snowing, and has been cutting in and out every few minutes ever since. I'll probably be cut off before I finish this post. Even after Century Link came to my house on a Sunday to hook me back up, I'm still disconnected. Argh.

If that isn't enough to make me gnash my pearlies, eight years of olive oil and cat hair have finally choked my kitchen sink drain into paralysis, leaving a stinking pool of fetid water undrained. If my kitchen drain was my lungs, I'd be purple and dead on the floor.

And to top off this wicker basket which is heading rapidly toward hell, I just realized that I am incapable of making a commitment. I can't commit to a relationship, I can't commit to a career, I can't even commit to a religion. I seem to be constitutionally incapable of making a commitment. (Oh, how the nihilist is laughing.)

Let me explain how I came to this realization. Yesterday I was paging through some random blogs (I am beginning to suspect they aren't actually random, Google, you scamp), I saw over and over the cutest-on-the-block blogs presented by proud wives and mothers (never husbands and fathers). These smiling women praised their husbands, bragged about their children, (posting umpteen photos of the insides of their homes—have they no care for home invaders and burglars?), professed undying devotion to their marriages, and thanked God for their gloriously contented lives.

Herein lies my beef, leading to the provocative and as yet unsubstantiated claim in my post title. I am positive that if I were to corner all of these women and ask them about their religious beliefs, they would to a woman say they were devout Republican Christians and proud of it. Moreover, if I were to tell them I am not, they would no doubt look at me in horrified pity and ask how could this be? I would have to shake my head in resignation. They have something I lack. Somehow they have the enviable ability to choose something and believe in it. They have commitment, to their relationships, to their families, to their religions, to their beliefs.

I can always tell when I am angry. My writing tone gets really snarky. (I love that word, snarky. I'm sure it is out of fashion to use it, sort of like bling, cool, and you go, girl, but I don't care.) Sometimes I don't know I am angry until I actually read what I've written.

Back to my rant. I missed out on the commitment gene, it appears. I don't know how else to explain it. There is something wrong with me. (Damn, my Internet connection is... no wait, now it's back on. Jeez.) This lack of commitment is what drives me to say things like organized religions are marketing machines run by hucksters seeking market share. If I had been raised a good Christian, or Buddhist, or Mormon, or whatever... no, I don't think it would make any difference. I would still say it. I just don't have the commitment gene.

I think organized religions are marketing machines bent on increasing market share in a bid for world domination. It seems obvious to me. They use every marketing tool in the book, plus the good old-fashioned tried-and-true you-are-going-to-hell messages to persuade customers to commit to their brand. Most people seem to be looking for some sparkling edifice to hide behind, some altar to kneel before, some set of rules to follow, so they can finally feel safe. Commitment is no problem for them. Just offer them the best deal and they will sign up for life. Like those happy blogger gals.

Not me. If I believed in hell, which I don't, I'd say to hell with all you religious believers. Except, I already know I'm in the handbasket, heading toward hell on earth (AKA increasing hatred and violence, destruction of the ecosystem, and unbridled self-centered obsession). Maybe those blogger moms don't realize it yet, but they are in here with me. Here we go, wheeeee.