In keeping with our spiritually mismatched home, my children are being raised in two churches. They and I go to an Anglican church, where we've found a wonderful community that is both nurturing and theologically disciplined. They also attend a Catholic school. This year -- with Aidan in Gr 8 and Anna in Gr 2 -- was significant since Gr 2 is the time for First COmmunion and Gr 8 is for Confirmation. While Aidan made a decision to be confirmed in the Anglican church, Anna was quite adamant about taking First Communion. After having a conversation with the priest to assure him that we would try to come once a month and Anna would not take communion outside the RC church, we went ahead with it.
I've been watching as she's been preparing in her classroom, trying to correct some of the inaccuracies that pop up from time to time -- they are instructed by the teachers, not the priest, so these things happen (such as Jesus is the son of God, therefore not God.)
Yesterday, as Anna was having her bath and washing her hair in preparation for putting on her pretty, and simple, white dress, we talked about why she was making such a big deal out of being prepared and looking her best, and what it meant to take first communion.
I explained that since the church was the bride of Christ we are to imitate a wedding as we join with Jesus. When I told her that white was also the symbol of purity, she asked why the boys were wearing black, so I said you girls and boys are mimicing a wedding occasion that you become officially and publicly committed to Jesus.
She then asked me if Jesus got married in real life, and I said no. To this she thought a moment, and then said: That's good. Because it would have been unfair to the rest of us if he had.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Spiritual Mismatches
I’ve always had a soft spot for Hosea – that nice prophet commanded by God to marry a prostitute. He entered this marital union with eyes wide open, knowing life would not be all wine, roses and connubial bliss. He accepted his role as picture of God’s forbearance with Israel, as they willingly threw themselves on the altar of a pagan culture.
Life as metaphor is as effective today. Living in a secular world, it’s inevitable that some Christians will fall in love and marry non-believers. I know because it happened to me, and while I may not be God’s chosen metaphor for life today, I do inhabit a strange border between faith and culture.
My atheist husband and I have had many heated discussions – me dodging potshots intended to blow my beliefs out of the water, all the while lobbing a few defence-of-the-faith salvos of my own.
Add the challenge of trying to raise faithful children who will able to walk the line in a problematic culture and it makes for an interesting life, indeed.
Of course, it’s not all bad – being held accountable makes you either cave or get serious.
I chose the latter, though my choice of methods was probably not all that wise. Assuming that dealing with an intelligent academic required rigorous intellectual apologetics, I took a religious studies degree, volunteered for every social justice activity going, taught Sunday school, and boned up on every issue facing my evangelical church, from gay marriage to creationism and intelligent design, from stem cell research, to abortion.
While it accomplished exhaustion for me, it resulted in an intellectual impasse for us. Until my husband’s mid-life crisis hit, that is. As my honest, gentle man turned into a narcissist and worse, there was little I could do but sit by and watch our marriage unravel.
Pain is a mighty teacher, though, and after 40 years on intellectual autopilot, I learned to let go of the strictures around my heart. After indulging in many of my own narcissistic tears, I got real – about my marriage, myself, and God.
Can our attitudes be an obstacle? My pastor seems to think so:“If they’re aggressive about their own faith, the believer can prevent the spouse coming to faith.”
Take the example of Sarah Ruth in Flannery O’Connor’s short story Parker’s Back. A chapter-and-verse quoting evangelical, she marries OE Parker, a tattoo-covered transient who has avoided God all his life. After a tractor accident results in a burning bush/tree, Parker gets his last tattoo -- the face of the Byzantine Christ gracing the whole of his back. Furious, Sarah Ruth beats him with a broom and sends him away.
I have read that story many times, always gleaning something new. Recently it occurred to me that maybe my metaphor is more Sarah Ruth than Hosea. So angry about an unbelieving husband, and forgetting all about joy, we overlook the signs of God’s grace in our other’s lives. Like my husband and his work with the poor, homeless and marginalized.
I am now wondering what kind of Christ I have painted on my back. As Donald Miller puts it in Blue Like Jazz, “nothing’s going to change in the Congo until we figure out what’s wrong with the person in the mirror.”
My pastor advises mixed marriage couples like us to “aim for mutual respect.”
He had a good point – I’d never considered my husband’s perspective of being married to a Christian. So I asked him. Initially he tiptoed through his answer, but after warming up and seeing it wasn’t coming to verbal blows, he was blunt: “It’s weird. And irritating – that whole notion that everything is God’s plan and people have no choice or say in their lives.” There was more -- much more -- and mostly fairly common liberal views, but I'll stop there.
Except to say that his view of me surprised -- and hurt. I thought that his objections were mostly control issues: God as “puppet-master”; pushy evangelizers; the church “club” for special members who’ve passed the test.
Then something my six-year-old daughter said gave me pause. She asked why Daddy didn’t go to church, and I explained he didn’t believe in God. After an incredulous “How could he not believe in God? God is everywhere,” she added: “Daddy doesn’t believe because he can’t see God.”
If our lives are witness to God, then maybe Daddy is blind to Him because Mommy’s been so busy trying to be perfectly moral that she’s forgotten how to be the face of Christ. Like Sarah Jane, I’d been holding up a God more closely resembling an orderly control freak than a welcoming servant king. As such, maybe my faith is not all that different from Daddy’s progressivist atheism.
A line from William Edgar’s essay in Finding God at Harvard hit home: “Becoming a Christian means that one's foundation is radically changed. But it takes a lifetime -- and, I suppose, an eternity -- to become fully conformed to what we are foundationally.”
Life as workshop for working out the mess it means to be human -- and perhaps the bridge for better communication between Christians and non-believers.
Finding the common language to express it is a challenge, but I think the answer lies in parables. I’ve seen them work -- during a particularly difficult time in our marriage, a couple of movies deeply affected my husband, and like Adam recognizing himself in Eve, he identified with the tragic depiction of someone bereft of community.
Can my husband and I find a story to share? The Christian story, as simple and obvious as it sounds – an invitation to love and be loved -- might be a good place to start. As the Catholic Catechism states, “sincere married love, the humble and patient practice of the family virtues, and perseverance in prayer” can prepare the non-believer for the “grace of conversion.”
My pastor seconds that: “The top priority has to be that the unbeliever knows they’re loved by their spouse. It all comes back to love.”
Living authentically – to love others, not just our families but our communities, too, to lay the foundation of the Biblical story within our heart, to wear the dark-eyed Christ on our back, to continuously forgive those who wrong us -- is a pretty powerful witness. Going forth like so, can the world dismiss Christians as narrow-minded, pushy, privileged members of some elite club?
That simple love story certainly convicted Gomer -- humbled by lessons learned by her travails in the world, she made her way back to the forgiveness of Hosea.
Will my husband and I ever resolve our differences? Maybe not. But we are learning to discuss them respectfully. And I am learning the simple, but hard, lesson that the picture of God’s welcome, hospitality and forbearance is worth a thousand words.
Life as metaphor is as effective today. Living in a secular world, it’s inevitable that some Christians will fall in love and marry non-believers. I know because it happened to me, and while I may not be God’s chosen metaphor for life today, I do inhabit a strange border between faith and culture.
My atheist husband and I have had many heated discussions – me dodging potshots intended to blow my beliefs out of the water, all the while lobbing a few defence-of-the-faith salvos of my own.
Add the challenge of trying to raise faithful children who will able to walk the line in a problematic culture and it makes for an interesting life, indeed.
Of course, it’s not all bad – being held accountable makes you either cave or get serious.
I chose the latter, though my choice of methods was probably not all that wise. Assuming that dealing with an intelligent academic required rigorous intellectual apologetics, I took a religious studies degree, volunteered for every social justice activity going, taught Sunday school, and boned up on every issue facing my evangelical church, from gay marriage to creationism and intelligent design, from stem cell research, to abortion.
While it accomplished exhaustion for me, it resulted in an intellectual impasse for us. Until my husband’s mid-life crisis hit, that is. As my honest, gentle man turned into a narcissist and worse, there was little I could do but sit by and watch our marriage unravel.
Pain is a mighty teacher, though, and after 40 years on intellectual autopilot, I learned to let go of the strictures around my heart. After indulging in many of my own narcissistic tears, I got real – about my marriage, myself, and God.
Can our attitudes be an obstacle? My pastor seems to think so:“If they’re aggressive about their own faith, the believer can prevent the spouse coming to faith.”
Take the example of Sarah Ruth in Flannery O’Connor’s short story Parker’s Back. A chapter-and-verse quoting evangelical, she marries OE Parker, a tattoo-covered transient who has avoided God all his life. After a tractor accident results in a burning bush/tree, Parker gets his last tattoo -- the face of the Byzantine Christ gracing the whole of his back. Furious, Sarah Ruth beats him with a broom and sends him away.
I have read that story many times, always gleaning something new. Recently it occurred to me that maybe my metaphor is more Sarah Ruth than Hosea. So angry about an unbelieving husband, and forgetting all about joy, we overlook the signs of God’s grace in our other’s lives. Like my husband and his work with the poor, homeless and marginalized.
I am now wondering what kind of Christ I have painted on my back. As Donald Miller puts it in Blue Like Jazz, “nothing’s going to change in the Congo until we figure out what’s wrong with the person in the mirror.”
My pastor advises mixed marriage couples like us to “aim for mutual respect.”
He had a good point – I’d never considered my husband’s perspective of being married to a Christian. So I asked him. Initially he tiptoed through his answer, but after warming up and seeing it wasn’t coming to verbal blows, he was blunt: “It’s weird. And irritating – that whole notion that everything is God’s plan and people have no choice or say in their lives.” There was more -- much more -- and mostly fairly common liberal views, but I'll stop there.
Except to say that his view of me surprised -- and hurt. I thought that his objections were mostly control issues: God as “puppet-master”; pushy evangelizers; the church “club” for special members who’ve passed the test.
Then something my six-year-old daughter said gave me pause. She asked why Daddy didn’t go to church, and I explained he didn’t believe in God. After an incredulous “How could he not believe in God? God is everywhere,” she added: “Daddy doesn’t believe because he can’t see God.”
If our lives are witness to God, then maybe Daddy is blind to Him because Mommy’s been so busy trying to be perfectly moral that she’s forgotten how to be the face of Christ. Like Sarah Jane, I’d been holding up a God more closely resembling an orderly control freak than a welcoming servant king. As such, maybe my faith is not all that different from Daddy’s progressivist atheism.
A line from William Edgar’s essay in Finding God at Harvard hit home: “Becoming a Christian means that one's foundation is radically changed. But it takes a lifetime -- and, I suppose, an eternity -- to become fully conformed to what we are foundationally.”
Life as workshop for working out the mess it means to be human -- and perhaps the bridge for better communication between Christians and non-believers.
Finding the common language to express it is a challenge, but I think the answer lies in parables. I’ve seen them work -- during a particularly difficult time in our marriage, a couple of movies deeply affected my husband, and like Adam recognizing himself in Eve, he identified with the tragic depiction of someone bereft of community.
Can my husband and I find a story to share? The Christian story, as simple and obvious as it sounds – an invitation to love and be loved -- might be a good place to start. As the Catholic Catechism states, “sincere married love, the humble and patient practice of the family virtues, and perseverance in prayer” can prepare the non-believer for the “grace of conversion.”
My pastor seconds that: “The top priority has to be that the unbeliever knows they’re loved by their spouse. It all comes back to love.”
Living authentically – to love others, not just our families but our communities, too, to lay the foundation of the Biblical story within our heart, to wear the dark-eyed Christ on our back, to continuously forgive those who wrong us -- is a pretty powerful witness. Going forth like so, can the world dismiss Christians as narrow-minded, pushy, privileged members of some elite club?
That simple love story certainly convicted Gomer -- humbled by lessons learned by her travails in the world, she made her way back to the forgiveness of Hosea.
Will my husband and I ever resolve our differences? Maybe not. But we are learning to discuss them respectfully. And I am learning the simple, but hard, lesson that the picture of God’s welcome, hospitality and forbearance is worth a thousand words.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Fog Lifts
Since Belinda tells me she found it sad that my last post before hiding away for 3 months was darkness falls, I figured I'd post again with a brighter title.
I've been holed up with my computer the last while writing a book on home staging -- more on that later, since I really didn't think bursting onto the book publishing scene would be with a decorating book, but there you have it. During it all, or perhaps because of it all, my mind keeps wandering to home improvement, and especially that kitchen floor.
I have just finished reading Maxine Hancock's Living on Less and Liking it More, and realize that my $80K kitchen floor is yet another example of how "just one thing more" before I'm truly happy consumes and conquers us.
So I will repair the floor (although first I have to reinforce the joists underneath and reinsulate it), but I won't get a new kitchen, or knock out walls, or subject us all to plaster dust, or worse having to move elsewhere for a month while it's done... and I'm really quite happy about it.
I've been holed up with my computer the last while writing a book on home staging -- more on that later, since I really didn't think bursting onto the book publishing scene would be with a decorating book, but there you have it. During it all, or perhaps because of it all, my mind keeps wandering to home improvement, and especially that kitchen floor.
I have just finished reading Maxine Hancock's Living on Less and Liking it More, and realize that my $80K kitchen floor is yet another example of how "just one thing more" before I'm truly happy consumes and conquers us.
So I will repair the floor (although first I have to reinforce the joists underneath and reinsulate it), but I won't get a new kitchen, or knock out walls, or subject us all to plaster dust, or worse having to move elsewhere for a month while it's done... and I'm really quite happy about it.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Darkness Falls, and I tiptoe through culture's minefields
Every so often, in spite of all the self-education I have on teenagers, I feel like the ground under me is not so stable. I wish I could say this was a simple case of "The Enemy" attacking, as some Christians I know might say.
But I think it's a more complicated issue of the collision of free will(s), the object being a Wii or an MP3 player, and the conflict between my 13-year-old son's free will saying yes, and my free will saying no.
We had the discussion last night about his Christmas gift list, and my first response was $200 is too much money to spend on Christmas gifts. He, teary-eyed, said I was mean and that all his friends got way more than that. Me, tired, replied that we weren't his friends' parents. He, defiant, said you got that right. Then he stomped off.
I have several problems with the thing. It's not like it's all that new -- we had the Sony walkman 20 years ago and they all do the same thing: allow you to listen to music at any time you like. So my first objection is the ever presence-ness of it -- you can't get away from the music, and there's never any possibility of silence. Not silence in the sense of Mom and Dad can't stand the racket, cuz the things are glued to ears and it's hard to hear when you're on the outside. But the silence that's necessary for life. The distraction is not entirely safe, at least this is what I tell my son, though I've never heard of a teenager hit by a car because they were so wrapped up in their headphones.
Secondly, I object to the downloading of music, for two reasons. The first is, most people download illegally, that is don't pay for it. But the second reason is that you choose only the individual songs you like, so that the "collection" comprises unrelated pieces of music. There's no way a kid gets to hear a musician's whole canon. There's no possibility for nuanced variations in a musician's vision, and even though I might not like the music, I do recognize that every musician has some kind of worldview or vision.
Third, there's no way for a parent to vet lyrics on 300 songs. My stipulation has always been this: while I might not personally like the music, I do recognize your (teen child) choice in music. But I will have a say in the lyrics you're consuming.
Fourth, I do think there's an eardrum issue here -- potential for later damage.
Now that I've had the chance to sleep on it (and where did that expression come from -- anyone who's had to wrestle with something never sleeps, but lies awake tossing and turning, about the problem) -- tonight we will have a family conflab and I will list all the reasons why I'm opposed to giving an MP3 player for Christmas, and I will invite his reasons why he should have one. If they are solid and reasonable, chaos will set in once again, I will spend another night not sleeping and mulling and chewing this over, and we will go back to the negotiating table.
But I think it's a more complicated issue of the collision of free will(s), the object being a Wii or an MP3 player, and the conflict between my 13-year-old son's free will saying yes, and my free will saying no.
We had the discussion last night about his Christmas gift list, and my first response was $200 is too much money to spend on Christmas gifts. He, teary-eyed, said I was mean and that all his friends got way more than that. Me, tired, replied that we weren't his friends' parents. He, defiant, said you got that right. Then he stomped off.
I have several problems with the thing. It's not like it's all that new -- we had the Sony walkman 20 years ago and they all do the same thing: allow you to listen to music at any time you like. So my first objection is the ever presence-ness of it -- you can't get away from the music, and there's never any possibility of silence. Not silence in the sense of Mom and Dad can't stand the racket, cuz the things are glued to ears and it's hard to hear when you're on the outside. But the silence that's necessary for life. The distraction is not entirely safe, at least this is what I tell my son, though I've never heard of a teenager hit by a car because they were so wrapped up in their headphones.
Secondly, I object to the downloading of music, for two reasons. The first is, most people download illegally, that is don't pay for it. But the second reason is that you choose only the individual songs you like, so that the "collection" comprises unrelated pieces of music. There's no way a kid gets to hear a musician's whole canon. There's no possibility for nuanced variations in a musician's vision, and even though I might not like the music, I do recognize that every musician has some kind of worldview or vision.
Third, there's no way for a parent to vet lyrics on 300 songs. My stipulation has always been this: while I might not personally like the music, I do recognize your (teen child) choice in music. But I will have a say in the lyrics you're consuming.
Fourth, I do think there's an eardrum issue here -- potential for later damage.
Now that I've had the chance to sleep on it (and where did that expression come from -- anyone who's had to wrestle with something never sleeps, but lies awake tossing and turning, about the problem) -- tonight we will have a family conflab and I will list all the reasons why I'm opposed to giving an MP3 player for Christmas, and I will invite his reasons why he should have one. If they are solid and reasonable, chaos will set in once again, I will spend another night not sleeping and mulling and chewing this over, and we will go back to the negotiating table.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Absence makes the heart feel guilty...
It's been two whole months since I last posted on my own blog, and judging by the site meter results, it looks like my visitors have dwindled down to those accidental tourists who get directed here by their own googling mistakes.
But if you think I've ignored the blog, you should see what's happening in my house! My 13-year-old has just discovered -- no embraced -- the true meaning of anarchy. And my 7-year-old, not to be outdone by her older brother, has quickly followed suit.
In the past two or three weeks, they have refused to go to bed, eat their fruit and veg, pick up wet towels, put away dishes, or turn off the TV and video games when asked. Their dad is looking a little gimlet-eyed of late, too -- he exploded (a lot from a very mild-mannered guy) the other day about how nobody listens to him. That would include me.
And don't even get me started on the house. I was going to go get a new prescription for eye glasses but have decided against it -- I don't want to see the dirt sticking to baseboards like a leech to a swimmer's legs, or the dust that coats the tops of doorjambs and picture frames like newly fallen snow (in a snowstorm).
As if I wasn't overwhelmed enough, I've taken up reading Revelations (it's the subject of my new seven-week Bible study course and not some form of twisted punishment). It could actually be viewed as a book of hope, except for those who refuse to bask in the light of God's illumination.
It's like the dust in my house -- I don't want to see it, so I'll walk around without glasses. But we can't do that with God, cuz if we hope to get closer, the light emanating from his glory and presence is so blinding that it shows off all our dark and dusty corners.
There's one big difference between housekeeping and faith, though, and that is Jesus parable of leaving the interior home so spotless it becomes an open invitation for Diabolo to take up residence. While we're meant to tidy up our messy interior, we're also supposed to fill it immediately with the Holy Spirit.
I'll take that parable into the mundane -- or the profane, as my house looks today -- and exploring my neglect of children, house, husband, and dog (whose nails I only managed to clip last night after three months). In light of those preoccupations, it means that I not only have to sweep out the cobwebs -- the dust and dirt -- but also the bad habits of relating ("whaddya mean you have no clean socks, underwear or towels, if you don't like it, then wash them yourself -- I'm on strike!").
It also means filling my home with a certain kind of presence -- praise of God, focus on Jesus, a relationship with the Spirit. That's the only thing that gets you anywhere in trying to mend fences with those you've disconnected from.
Cuz, anyone who's ignored their kids for a period of time will tell you that it's not easy sidling up to them after you've gone awol (even if it was to work so hard you could afford braces for their crooked little teeth). They're like pets you've left at the kennel for holidays -- they ignore your attempts for a statutory three days then they're all over you like a pig on a sofa.
It's not so bad, though -- usually all they're looking for is food, a hug, and a word of praise.
But if you think I've ignored the blog, you should see what's happening in my house! My 13-year-old has just discovered -- no embraced -- the true meaning of anarchy. And my 7-year-old, not to be outdone by her older brother, has quickly followed suit.
In the past two or three weeks, they have refused to go to bed, eat their fruit and veg, pick up wet towels, put away dishes, or turn off the TV and video games when asked. Their dad is looking a little gimlet-eyed of late, too -- he exploded (a lot from a very mild-mannered guy) the other day about how nobody listens to him. That would include me.
And don't even get me started on the house. I was going to go get a new prescription for eye glasses but have decided against it -- I don't want to see the dirt sticking to baseboards like a leech to a swimmer's legs, or the dust that coats the tops of doorjambs and picture frames like newly fallen snow (in a snowstorm).
As if I wasn't overwhelmed enough, I've taken up reading Revelations (it's the subject of my new seven-week Bible study course and not some form of twisted punishment). It could actually be viewed as a book of hope, except for those who refuse to bask in the light of God's illumination.
It's like the dust in my house -- I don't want to see it, so I'll walk around without glasses. But we can't do that with God, cuz if we hope to get closer, the light emanating from his glory and presence is so blinding that it shows off all our dark and dusty corners.
There's one big difference between housekeeping and faith, though, and that is Jesus parable of leaving the interior home so spotless it becomes an open invitation for Diabolo to take up residence. While we're meant to tidy up our messy interior, we're also supposed to fill it immediately with the Holy Spirit.
I'll take that parable into the mundane -- or the profane, as my house looks today -- and exploring my neglect of children, house, husband, and dog (whose nails I only managed to clip last night after three months). In light of those preoccupations, it means that I not only have to sweep out the cobwebs -- the dust and dirt -- but also the bad habits of relating ("whaddya mean you have no clean socks, underwear or towels, if you don't like it, then wash them yourself -- I'm on strike!").
It also means filling my home with a certain kind of presence -- praise of God, focus on Jesus, a relationship with the Spirit. That's the only thing that gets you anywhere in trying to mend fences with those you've disconnected from.
Cuz, anyone who's ignored their kids for a period of time will tell you that it's not easy sidling up to them after you've gone awol (even if it was to work so hard you could afford braces for their crooked little teeth). They're like pets you've left at the kennel for holidays -- they ignore your attempts for a statutory three days then they're all over you like a pig on a sofa.
It's not so bad, though -- usually all they're looking for is food, a hug, and a word of praise.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The Snowball Effect
For the past two years, I have sat at my desk, in full view of my kitchen floor. A kitchen floor that's always top of mind and the to-do list -- always in need of washing and waxing. When it was installed 11 years ago, the hunter green and white checkerboard effect was stunning, and being linoleum tile, it was less expensive than ceramics, and gentler underfoot.
Now, however, it's cracking in spots, and breaking off at a few corners. It can still look good if stripped and re-waxed -- an arduous hands and knees job.
But it needs to be replaced. And there's the rub. Is it worth replacing the floor now, if I'm going to change the cupboards in a couple of years? They're 11 years old and some of them are getting shabby. And if I replace the cupboards, I might as well knock out the wall between the dining room and kitchen that I've wanted to do for a long time now. And if I do that, I might as well enlarge the opening between the dining room and the little den/TV room that's now my office, in full view of the kitchen floor. But if I do that, I'll need to replace the hardwood flooring throughout the main floor, because there's no way to match 80-year-old flooring with new bits and pieces. So if I'm going to go that far, perhaps it would be best to do an addition on the back of the house, enlarging the kitchen to make it big enough to eat in and entertain in. And while we're at it, we might as well go up and add on to the second floor.
Which is why I'm back to doing nothing with my kitchen floor because it's going to end up costing me $80,000.
Now, however, it's cracking in spots, and breaking off at a few corners. It can still look good if stripped and re-waxed -- an arduous hands and knees job.
But it needs to be replaced. And there's the rub. Is it worth replacing the floor now, if I'm going to change the cupboards in a couple of years? They're 11 years old and some of them are getting shabby. And if I replace the cupboards, I might as well knock out the wall between the dining room and kitchen that I've wanted to do for a long time now. And if I do that, I might as well enlarge the opening between the dining room and the little den/TV room that's now my office, in full view of the kitchen floor. But if I do that, I'll need to replace the hardwood flooring throughout the main floor, because there's no way to match 80-year-old flooring with new bits and pieces. So if I'm going to go that far, perhaps it would be best to do an addition on the back of the house, enlarging the kitchen to make it big enough to eat in and entertain in. And while we're at it, we might as well go up and add on to the second floor.
Which is why I'm back to doing nothing with my kitchen floor because it's going to end up costing me $80,000.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Daily Ablutions
It's no secret to the people nearest and dearest to me that I must, in order to pay the grocery and orthodontic bill, write stories about the interior design of model homes and condo suites. Occasionally, a truly spectacular building -- low rise home, or condo project -- will come along. But for the most part, these are dreary creations, often with gratuitous embellisments meant to make the place look pretty. That's the architecture.
And then there's the interior design. If you can call it that. The subdivision homes are the worst by far. They have endless hallways and staircases, which consume about a third of the square footage, and then there are the double height ceilings in the formal living room.
I can't, of course, slam this stuff, because I'd never write again in this town. But you can't imagine what I'm thinking while waxing cheesy poetic from my keyboard.
Today, for example, I had to extol the virtues of very high end spa baths and gourmand kitchens. First of all, nobody has the time to luxuriate in that spa, nor to rustle up delicious vittles in that fancy kitchen with its two wall ovens, two sinks (one for washing lettuce!) and stainless steel fridge with glass doors -- only neatniks need apply, since every fingerprint shows up here.
Secondly, how much more retreating from the public sphere are we going to do? At least if you belong to a gym and go to the spa, there's a communal sense to it. You can even take a friend along. But can you imagine inviting a friend to join you in your bathroom, no matter how nice it is?
If you play out the scenario, there you are in terrycloth robes lounging away, perhaps even leaning up against the bidet or the commode. For heaven's sakes, who can relax, up close and personal, next to the "seat" of ablutions?
Most of the women I know are so busy that they take those precious few moments of their uninterrupted shower time to scrub out the tub. Like me, they've even got the sequence of rituals down to such a fine art so that they can shave a leg with one hand, while squeegeeing the walls with the other, as they wait for the conditioner to set. The only quandry is whether to wash it all off before hauling out the industrial size Vim or after. The advantage of the latter is that they can scrub the tub bottom with the soles of their feet slathered with Ajax cleanser -- and so save the high price of a pedicure and pumice stone treatment.
And then there's the interior design. If you can call it that. The subdivision homes are the worst by far. They have endless hallways and staircases, which consume about a third of the square footage, and then there are the double height ceilings in the formal living room.
I can't, of course, slam this stuff, because I'd never write again in this town. But you can't imagine what I'm thinking while waxing cheesy poetic from my keyboard.
Today, for example, I had to extol the virtues of very high end spa baths and gourmand kitchens. First of all, nobody has the time to luxuriate in that spa, nor to rustle up delicious vittles in that fancy kitchen with its two wall ovens, two sinks (one for washing lettuce!) and stainless steel fridge with glass doors -- only neatniks need apply, since every fingerprint shows up here.
Secondly, how much more retreating from the public sphere are we going to do? At least if you belong to a gym and go to the spa, there's a communal sense to it. You can even take a friend along. But can you imagine inviting a friend to join you in your bathroom, no matter how nice it is?
If you play out the scenario, there you are in terrycloth robes lounging away, perhaps even leaning up against the bidet or the commode. For heaven's sakes, who can relax, up close and personal, next to the "seat" of ablutions?
Most of the women I know are so busy that they take those precious few moments of their uninterrupted shower time to scrub out the tub. Like me, they've even got the sequence of rituals down to such a fine art so that they can shave a leg with one hand, while squeegeeing the walls with the other, as they wait for the conditioner to set. The only quandry is whether to wash it all off before hauling out the industrial size Vim or after. The advantage of the latter is that they can scrub the tub bottom with the soles of their feet slathered with Ajax cleanser -- and so save the high price of a pedicure and pumice stone treatment.
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