Praise Be

This morning, my cell phone alarm went off at 6:15 AM as planned. It was time to get ready for church. My parents have gone Turbo-Christian, and this is part of their weekly routine. Having said that, we are still able to conduct conversations without them trying to convert me, so I choose to support them in their endeavor and attend church with them when I'm in town.

I was at a wedding yesterday and mentioned that I thought I could wear the same ensemble to church. When I put it the white tank top and brown fitted jacket on, my mom said, "Oh, honey, that's too revealing." My sister tried to stick up for the Max Azria top, to no avail (it must be from his Heathen Collection). Mom did back off a little, saying that maybe that outfit was appropriate for the SECOND service, but not for the first one we were attending. I mentioned that the second services everywhere were attended by the loose women, but she only giggled a little and looked mostly disturbed by that idea.

When we finally arrived, we were an hour early for the service. Mom likes to get there way early while it's quiet. Unfortunately, that also means that she's always shushing us. My sister blew her nose in the bathroom, and outside the bathroom door my mom whispered, "Shhh!"

When people started arriving, that's when the introductions started. My sister is the award-winning songwriter (buy her CD here). Unfortunately, no one understands or cares about film editors, so my mom turned me into the "Editor, Director, Actress, and Singer" even though I have only acted once in the past 6 years and only sing in my shower.

She also mentioned that one of the films that I directed went to Sundance. Amid the fake oohs from the listener (who barely knew what Sundance was), I could only help but think "I was actually the cinematographer." But whatever. I wish that I had been introducing myself, so I could say that I am the "Editor, Contortionist, Director, Shuffleboard Champion, Actress." Then I would have ripped my sweater open to reveal the shirt that says "Jane Fonda is my hero." Maybe I could top that off by running onto the stage and attempting to sing a hymn, but instead of saying "Jesus" or "Him" I would say "Homeboy."

The service was uneventful. I figured that since I had made it through the doors without instantaneously combusting, the rest was cake. While Pastor Shaddix was up there, discussing Exodus or something, I was trying to recall my naughtiest sexual encounters, times when I had used the Lord's name in vain, and my last flag-burning rampage. Still, no combusting. I think God was distracted by a choir member's garish pink hat.

We walked out of the service and into my parent's Senior Bible Study. When I entered, I noticed that the room smelled like Chanel No. 5 with a slight tinge of disillusionment mixed in. These cute oldsters were all puttering around, talking about things like the recent picnic and their hips. When my sister and I walked in, it was like they could sense the strength of our pulses and they instinctively stretched their withered fingers towards us, mouths open, chanting for either blood or denture glue. I couldn't tell which.

We were bombarded. My parents sit in the back row, and all these people pride themselves on being the obnoxious ones. Their nickname? "The Backsliders." We were forced to join these ruffians as our mom once again began her embellished introductions to the surging crowd.

The man presiding over the study looked exactly like Lewis Arquette. Most of the time, noise was coming out of his mouth, but they weren't coherent words. Every once in a while, he would say an actual sentence, but mostly there was just a gentle white noise eminating from his mouth. The geriatric population in the audience responded in kind while constantly bobbing their heads, reminding me of Skexxies, except nice.

When we exited the building, I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. I had heard my mom say numerous times that her daughters were living in LA, "where Satan does most of his PR." As I sat in the backseat of the Jeep, speeding away from the holy place, I smiled to myself over that observation. It's one of those funny-because-it's-true things. Mama doesn't know the half of it.

bless us. g