"I'm no theologian. I don't know who or what God is. All I know is he's more powerful than Mom and Dad put together."-Lisa Simpson

Simon (intently cutting off pieces of scotch tape from the roll with scissors): Hey, Mom, what is God? Like, is he a person and how does he live up there in the sky?”

********************************

Simon spent yesterday afternoon taping all the leaves he had collected onto construction paper. We identified the obvious – we have a preponderance of maple leaves, for example – and he wrote the names on the pages in glittery purple marker. There’s still an almost-full Tupperware container full of leaf fragments, stems, acorns, and other detritus of fall. I found myself wanting to straighten the leaves, double the scotch tape so you couldn’t see it – wait, no, let’s PRESS the leaves between contact paper. Let ME do the lettering so it looks nicer. And let’s not tape the acorns into the book because then it won’t close. I am proud to say that I controlled my control-freak impulses.

I spent close to fifteen years, by training and trade, as a scenic artist. If I say so myself, I am a decent craftsman. I may not paint my own masterpieces, but I have produced some breathtakingly lovely pieces of artwork in the form of drops and scenery for various theatres. It is HARD for me not to want to do as clean and lovely a job as possible.

Am I the only mom out there who has to fight against these impulses to fix, straighten, clean, add one more detail, or erase one little smudge? I do NOT want to spend his grade school years helping with/doing his homework so it will be perfect but I can already tell that that may be a battle with myself. On a scale of one to ten, in the rating of insane parenting impulses, 1= perfectly normal and 10= hopelessly neurotic, how insane am I?

**************************************

Randy Hogue came to my high school when I was in the seventh grade, along with some group of singers called New Life or something equally absurd. I do remember they all wore frumpy red dresses (the women) and red turtlenecks (the men) but my memory could be incorrect, destroyed or repressed by the trauma of the revival week that followed. I’m pretty sure they cannot have cancelled classes for the week but all I remember of that week is sitting in the school auditorium (which was also the church’s sanctuary) screamed at and harangued about the evils of drugs, alcohol, pop music, and dancing, Randy Hogue working himself into a lather, spitting and sweating in his fervor; and spending the entire week secretly convinced that whether I went forward to be saved or not (not that I hadn’t already done that at my own church), I was heading straight to hell, without my mom and dad, my brothers, or any of my friends. I prayed desperately for some sign that I really had been saved – a lightning bolt, a rainbow, who the hell knows what I expected. I was terrified.

Randy Hogue told horrific stories about his druggie friends who had tripped out on LSD and thought the potato someone threw out a window was their brain; people picking themselves raw, suffering from withdrawal symptoms in rehab; nurses having to peel people off the walls and ceilings. Fine, I get that drugs are bad for you but must you terrorize innocent Baptist children?

The other memorable thing about Randy Hogue was his Hellevator schtick. He had his ideas of what hell is like, so he took us on his Hellevator ride, stopping at different levels (I somehow doubt he was a Dante aficionado) to check out the thrills of Hell, the vile tortures that Satan and his minions had in store for us. It was definitely a PG-13 kind of deal, but weird nonetheless. There are most likely more people from my high school graduating class that remember Randy Hogue than remember our teachers. I will give him that – he was memorable. “I am pushing the Down button…we descend…darkness and heat and agonized screams of the damned who don’t have Jesus Christ as their personal savior…” Really, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

************************************

Every time I watch Sex and the City, I am gripped with a raging desire to start smoking again. It’s all Carrie’s fault. I *know* it’s bad for you, I know it stinks, but God I miss smoking. The episode on TBS last night – what do YOU watch when you are awake with a crying baby? – was the one where they go to LA. I have 2 things – 1) Matthew McConaughey is a freak and NOT attractive, and 2) I would date Vince Vaughn in a heartbeat. I’d probably even have sex with him in a heartbeat, but he’s that type of normal-looking movie star that makes you say, “Yeah, we could hang out and be friends.” And he’s sexy. And big – 6”4’. Yum.

**************************************

And just because I am tired and haven’t read anything in two days, I offer you this in propitiation. It might not do much for Joke or David, but…hey, I can’t please everyone.