I’m Goin’ To Church, Dammit!

Surprising as it may seem, I grew up in church. I believe one of the many policies of becoming a member at my childhood church was that members (ha, I said member) were to be present any and all times that the church doors were open. In a Baptist church, that is every Sunday morning for Sunday School and church, Sunday evenings for worship,  and Wednesday nights for Prayer Meetings. Yes, there were other times as well when one is expected to be there, but these three were considered the most essential.

When one grows up in this environment, and is also subject to church school where Bible class is during first period, and chapel is every Wednesday, needless to say, by the time I was 18, I was kinda burnt out on God. Forgive me if you find that to be sacreligious; let me re-phrase. I was burnt out on God in the way He was presented to me. I believe it was the very first Sunday after I had moved out of my parents and gotten my own place that I suspended my church attendance. For the next seven years.

Let me be clear, God has always been with me. He was in every person who showed me noticeable kindness throughout those years, and He understood that my maniac father had just shoved to much “religion” down my throat. Patient as He is known to be, God was just waiting until I wasn’t sick of the idea of Him anymore.

Then one day, I was looking in the local newspaper, and saw an ad : Pianist Wanted. I was ecstatic at the thought that I might actually be able to get paid to do something that I loved. I called the number and discovered the church in need was that of my Grammy and Gramps and most of my Aunties. “What good luck!” I thought. “I shall be able to get paid and also to visit my dearest family members at the same time!” Upon my stellar audition, I was of course immediately offered the job.

At the time, I was just newly married. Though he said he wanted to start going to church, for the next 3 1/2 years, my hubby only attended church with me once; when I gave a fund-raising Nutcracker concert. This didn’t really bother me too much, until I was working 80 hours a week and Sundays were my only day off. Then I began to get the mindset that if he wanted to spend time with me, the least he could do was spend an hour sitting next to me while learning about God. He stated that there were always better things to do on Sunday mornings. Like sleep.

Once I had left my heathenous marriage, I vowed that I would never again marry someone who wasn’t at least willing to attend church with me, even if only sometimes. To my surprise, only two weeks after the announcement that I had left my husband, my Rockstar decided he wanted to go with me. (To impress me). While it was an interesting time trying to explain a new man two weeks after I had left the man I’d been with for 12 years, I was greatly pleased anyway.

Since then, my Rockstar has decided my church is old and boring and completely on the way to death. He attends sometimes still, but only to amuse me. It’s true, I have moved further away from the church than when I started playing, but it also is the only time that I get to see my fam, so I continue. I’ve tried explaining this to my Rockstar, but you understand how obtuse men can be at times.

I fully understand the allure of football and NASCAR on Sunday mornings, so I respect my Rockstar’s decision to opt out of church frequently. However, I do NOT respect the fact that he is ok with having a disrespectful 10 year old who has no spiritual guidance. The first Sunday after I had moved in with them, the Child begged to go to church with me, but he wouldn’t let her. Now, she whines if they come with, because it has not been instilled in her that it’s good for her.

I’m not saying I want her to grow to become a Bible-thumping wife of a preacher and to bear offspring to become spiritual minions, no. But I find nothing wrong with raising a child to “Do unto others” and all that bullshit. He’s not teaching her at home, so I think perhaps civil people at a church would be a good influence.

I don’t know if because of the way I was raised, I now find comfort in being in church on Sunday, or if it’s the fact that every person there is thrilled that I bring to them my musical talent and fashion flair- which feeds my Histrionic Monster that’s deep inside. Either way, it’s my thing, so when my Rockstar shot me a text yesterday what a beautiful day it was to not be in church, I told him to shut the fuck up and stop pissin’ me off. I guess it really is true what they teach you in Sunday school- Raise a child up in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. They just forgot to mention what that child might do on Saturday night. 😉

Sunday Drive

It has been said that drivers in St. Cloud, Minnesota are the worst in the world. Spending a good deal of my time driving to and from work in this town, I know this fact to be true. I would venture to say, however, that ALL drivers in Minnesota are the worst- while I have not had the pleasure of driving across other states now and then, it is safe to say that from what I’ve seen of Minnesota drivers, if the rest of the country drove as such, we would have reverted back to horses as our main source of transportation long ago.

Why am I mentioning the flaws of the Minnesota Licensed, you ask? Let me tell you.

I have mentioned in the past that I play piano for church every Sunday. (You may laugh now at the thought of the Bookwhore in church, everyone does.) Because I have continued to move further and further away from the church, I now live a good hour’s drive away. This drive allows me to reflect on my week, and to crank up Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor and Zakk Wilde’s Counterfeit God and jam out while I drive.

Yesterday, I was going about my own business, cruising at an unapproved 70 mph when I came up behind a polk of a driver. The main road I take to church is a source of constant chagrin to me, as it is infested daily with drivers who insist on going under the speed limit, and it is a two-lane highway with many hills not acceptable for passing. This causes me to resort to the only choice that remains- tailgating the slow-polks to irritate them enough that they go faster.

Said polk was just jaunting along at a less-than-desirable 45 mph when I came up behind him. Since I was jamming out at the time to Sick Puppies’ Riptide, I perhaps didn’t quite notice that I was committing my habitual tailgating crime. I realized it when the man began to turn, and I passed him on the right, and he swerved as if to hit me, then proceeded to flick me the bird. I just waved as I cruised past him in my yellow truck, but inside, I was steaming.

On the remaining drive to church, I daydreamed about what my inner homicidal maniac wanted to do to that rude man:

I would have made a quick U-turn and followed that asshole down the rode of his choice, tailgating and laying on the horn until he decided to stop along some desolate highway. Then I would have stopped, thrown my lovely truck into park and jumped down from the excessively-tall cab, landing rightly on my bronze sparkly wedges I was sporting. I then would have proceeded to pound on the man’s hood like Tarzan before dragging his terrified ass outta his driver’s seat and shout, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! JUST FUCKING GO FASTER, YOU DOUCHE!”. I then would have found it necessary to pummel his face to a bloody pulp before connecting my fabulous shoes with his manhood, at which time he would crumple to the asphalt, meanwhile, I’d be standing with hand on hip waving my finger at him and yelling, ” I better not see you going under 60 mph, and if you use that finger at me again in any way other than a pleasure-inducing manner, I will fucking bite it off, you fucker.”

Yeah, that woulda shown him!

Yes, I CAN Do Anything. So There.

Happy Sunday, Lovelys.  As a reformed back-slidden Christian, it is my duty to bring praise to the Lord by tickling the ivories at church. Parenthetically, I happen to get paid to do this. This may seem uncharitable, but I assure you, they would be overwrought without me. The church I play at has been my Grandma’s church since I was very young, and frankly, the congregation largely consists of people my Grandma’s age. Which means every week I get to play for very non-musical individuals who are about ready for dirt naps. So I jazz up the hymns and try to bring a bit of life back into the church.

Sunday tends to be either a day of great joy or one of utter irritation. I have been pianist at the church for 6 yrs or so, and during the extent of my marriage, my hubby never once set foot inside with me. Needless to say, I was thrilled when my Rockstar offered to go with me after we moved past the Fuck Buddy stage. Unfortuneately, the church is 70 miles away from home, so I soon realized he was not exactly ecstatic to waste half his Sunday driving (especially during football season). Oh, well. At least he comes sometimes.

Now I know that believing in Jesus makes you happy, because when I leave church, I am always in high spirits. I suppose this is mostly due to the fact that everyone there is generous with their compliments about my playing, and my shoes, and my hair…. I DO love attention, you know. And where in the Bible does it say you can’t be fashionable at church? Anyhoo, moving on.

When I was very young (to quote A.A. Milne), my auntie lived in a beautiful old Victorian house right a block away from church. I was too young to really remember much about it, except that I remember coloring in a Pac-Man coloring book on my cousin’s floor. They moved out of the house because my uncle believed it needed more work than he wanted to put into it. My Auntie has ever since resented him a little bit for making her sell her beautiful house. The people that moved in after that bought it for $399,000.

A few months ago, my Auntie was delighted to tell me that the house was for sale. The people who had lived in it had lost it, and the bank listed it for $149,000. Half the price it sold for before. As my Rockstar and I live in an apartment, I decided that we must buy it. Too bad I have crap credit (damn Victoria’s Secret) and make $8.50 an hr. My Rockstar looked at the house and said, “why would anyone want that?! It’s a million years old. It would cost a fortune to heat and fix up.” Well, he is kind of a No Man and can be very negative sometimes. Blah on him. Maybe it’s because I have childhood memories of the house, or maybe it’s because it has an awesome room for a library, but I must have it, and I don’t care if it needs work, because I have always wanted to learn how to tile and roof and carpenter. I was somewhat disheartened with his attitude, and my credit is so bad, that I didn’t really think anymore of it. Since then, the price has come down $30,000 and I have decided that I am too damn stubborn to not get what I want. Yes, the house will probably sell before I ever get a chance to make enough money to buy it, but I will do whatever it takes to get it. I am going tomorrow  to sell a bunch of crap that I don’t really use anyway, and I have applied at a few places, so that I can have a 2nd job to pay off my debt and come up with a down payment. Yes, the house is far away from my job, but I’ll worry about that when and if the time comes. I DO believe anything is possible- you just have to figure out a way, and trust in God. So wish me luck; maybe I will have to sell everything I own in order to buy it, but DAMN IT, it’s my dream house, and if my Rockstar is nice I may let him live in it with me when I buy it. (which he says he won’t, so too bad for him.) XOXO