Missedcongeniality's Weblog

For all of you who are reading this locally, I hope you have been able to enjoy the beautiful weather we’ve had the last few days. For those who read this column from distant time zones, it’s a Des Moines, WA thing…you had to be here to understand.  For the first time in over 6 months we’ve had 3 days in a row of temps that reached the sizzling 60s, and today we anticipate finally reaching at searing 70!

That’s the upside of the upcoming predictions…the downside is, according to Harold Camping a civil engineer-turned-biblical-scholar the ‘Rapture’ is set for 6 pm tomorrow night. Well, at least we got some good weather beforehand.

According to Mr. Camping, the estimation of 200 million people will be raptured, which is about 3% of the earth’s population. Although I haven’t seen any schematics on the geography of this world event, I’m pretty sure that the line at Starbucks will not experience any significant reduction. Alien invasion and nuclear apocalypse combined won’t shorten that wait.

Based on my brief research, (because Googled and found an entry in Wikipedia) I discovered that the predictions are formulated using calculations involving Jewish feast days in the Hebrew calendar, the lunar month, and the Gregorian calendar.  Which begs the question, is there an app for that for my smartphone? Anyone who knows me knows that I’m about as open minded as it gets, but this is a stretch even for my twisted little brain.

I cannot disprove him, but the debate I can offer up is more simplistic. It’s simply impossible to perform this particular arithmetic: Rosh Hashanah + Yom Kippur x 365, divided by 13,025 (his assertion of the earth’s actual age in years) = May 21, 2011. That comes out to the best example of ‘fuzzy math’ I’ve ever seen.

Besides which, I have asserted for DECADES that Algebra isn’t even real math.  Numbers added, subtracted, multiplied or divided to, from, and with each other is “math”.  When you throw letters into it, you begin to turn it into words.  Call any English teacher, they’ll confirm this. Don’t even get me started on Geometry; otherwise known as “Art.”

Mr. Campings followers are also convinced of their impending departure and have taken to the streets of New York with signage attesting the fact.  I’ve yet to see anyone on Marine View Drive making a statement about it, so I have to assume that his shortwave broadcasts haven’t reached us yet. Maybe I’ll stop in at the Lighthouse today to check if they’re having a Rapture Party tonight; and if so, does that include music by Blondie?

Ultimately there’s a lesson to be learned in all of this. Never take anything for granted, live each day as if it were your last, and go ahead and pay your utility bill. There isn’t a customer service department anywhere that will accept “my check is in the mail, pending the outcome of the Rapture” as a payment option.

And quite frankly, although I do not share this particular belief, I’m not making fun of it. Okay, maybe I am. But there are plenty of people and faith systems that I do not agree with, and this one just happens to fall in the ‘unlikely to be true’ category. If by chance it is, well, I’ll miss the 3% of you that will be gone, and I’ll hold your place in line while I’m waiting for my Caramel Macchiatto.

In a recent chat with a friend of mine, I came to the realization that I am blessed to have a pretty amazing support network.
“So, how’s your daughter?” Jeananne inquired.
“You mean the turd?” came my cheeky reply.
“Uh-oh. Okay. Tomorrow. Coffee.”
Jeananne is a true friend, indeed. She knows, she really knows. Like me, she has grown children whose decisions have often left us confused. She understands my frustration.
Everyone needs a friend like that, and I think it ought to have its own title and Facebook setting too. Simply calling them “Friend” doesn’t really cover it, and I just can’t bring myself to use “BFF” with a straight face.
What I’m talking about is a top-tier relationship; people who deserve supreme acknowledgment. These folks are First-Rate-Friends or FRFs (Pronounced: Furffs). It is possible to have more than one Furff. In fact, it’s generally better if you have multiple Furffs…for different situations.

Furff qualifications can fall along the following lines:

1. Someone whom you have known for several years and with whom you have mutual blackmail material.
2. Someone who has been in the room with you for childbirth, tattoo application, or removal. (Super-Furff status is granted if they have been there for all three)
3. Someone who will take you to, or pick you up from the airport at 4:00 a.m.
4. Someone who knows your weird habits and idiosyncrasies yet never mocks you publicly. (privately is ok, because of item #1)
5. A Furff can be a family member, but being a family member is not qualifying criteria in itself.

Most importantly, Furffs know when your kids are being turds, but wait for you to say it first. They know when their own kids are turds too, and concede that fact completely. They know you well enough to know if you need a margarita and a meal or chocolate chip cookie dough and a bottle of Bailey’s.
My personal Furffs have existed in many forms throughout my life. My Bestie Furff is the pal that I have known for the past thirty years; a stinging reminder of our age. She and I have been to and through mutual weddings, births, divorces, deaths of parents…and the biggest challenge ever; teenage daughters! That is a Furffdom for the ages!
It should be noted that spouses can also be Furffs, but it is a shaky status and subject to revocation:
“I’m having coffee with Jeananne tomorrow, I need to vent about The Daughter.” I informed Darling Husband at dinner.
“What is going on with The Daughter?” He inquired.
“You mean the turd?!? I’ll tell you what’s going on…she is out there in the world making ill-advised decisions with no grasp of long term consequences…”
“Know what her problem is?” he cut me off as my crazy train was chugging full steam.
“Yes, she won’t listen…”
“That’s not it, but you’re probably right about that too.” He countered.
“Oh, no. No, no, no…. I know where you are going, so don’t.” I cautioned.
“Yep. Not hard to figure out, really. She’s just…” this is where he jeopardized both his Furffdom and his health.
“Don’t. Say. It.”
“She’s her mother’s daughter.” Status revoked.

Furff coffee chat the next morning was fueled by major caffeine and minor chagrin. We laughed about our kids while we determined that sometimes adult children need to make their own decisions in order to learn life’s lessons. The rest of the visit was most enjoyable.
“So, how’s the husband?” She asked next.
“You mean the butthead?”
Some days there just isn’t enough coffee.

As a non-native, out-of-towner that moved to Seattle three years ago, I wasn’t sure how I would be received by the locals because, well I’ve been the ‘new kid’ a few times in my life and I’ve developed a healthy paranoia about it. Having just spent the past decade living in the Deep South, I was ready to begin a new chapter of my life, even if that meant being an outsider again. What I discovered in my first weeks here was that I needn’t have worried.

People here take things as they are, plain and simple.  Live and let live is not just a motto, but a way of life. To each their own, so to speak. I wasn’t used to that mentality having just come from the ‘fiddle-dee-dee-you’re-new-here-ain’t-ya-bless-yer-heart’ area of suburban Atlanta. And believe me, I’ve had my heart blessed quite a bit thank-you-very-much. Although the South has a well-earned reputation for hospitality, it can also be a little passive/aggressive. Insults come wrapped with concerned looks and an almost apologetic “Bless Your Heart.” (that’s a whole ‘nother column, to be sure). Which explains my initial nervousness about what to expect here. Like I said before, I needn’t have worried.

My first exposure to the easygoing way of life here in Waterland came unexpectedly on a sunny summer day.

While grocery shopping at QFC (actually it was after grocery shopping) I spied a gal in the parking lot whose glowing hair caught my eye. It was purple. Not like: I-tried-to-dye-it-red-and-came out-burgundy, but PURPLE. Barney the dinosaur PURPLE, and styled somewhere between a beehive and spiky-punk ‘do. At first glance, I just thought that this was a rebellious teen expressing her individuality, and didn’t give it a second glance. Primarily because, I had raised two teens of my own, and am well aware of what they will do for simple shock value. That’s when I gave her a second glance; and realized she wasn’t a teen.

My initial thoughts about her rebellion could not be chalked up to coming-of-age…because she was, well, more going-of-age. A woman of maturity, to be oh so very PC…and what had really taken me by surprise was; apparently, no one noticed. Really, no one.

My prior 10 years spent below the Mason Dixon line had conditioned me to anticipate that someone would have acknowledged this woman. Someone would have taken pity on her, because going out…even to the grocery store…required strict attention to one’s appearance; and being seen at the Piggly Wiggly with purple hair simply wasn’t done.

“Oh my, you poor thing! Let me give you the number of my girl…she’s a miracle worker and can fix you right up.” With a knowing nod, a phone number would have been folded in to her palm, and the well intended Stepford-Belle would have sashayed away.

But not here. Granny’s got her purple on. With her strappy sandals, Capri leggings and Bedazzled shirt she was positively rocking her look; and no one minded it one little bit.

As I loaded the groceries in my car, it occurred to me that I liked it. I liked seeing public displays of purple hair. I liked feeling free and confident again. I liked breathing in the marina air, and savoring the sounds and fragrances of the Farmer’s Market.  Headed down Marine View Drive I thought to myself, “You Go Grandma!” followed by, “Welcome home, Joy, welcome home.”

Now that I’m out of prison…oh, wait…wrong Blog.  Okay loyal readers…here’s the latest from me.  You can also find it on the Waterland Blog.

This week marks Passover. Today is both Good Friday as well as Earth Day. Sunday is Easter. This is a time when mankind will honor in various ways; The Earth, the Creator, and Salvation. As a result of the spiritual observations of faith, rites and customs, I have chosen to honor that which means so much to me: Peeps. Yes. Seriously, Peeps.

As far back as I can remember, and much to my mother’s dismay, I have loved those sugar-coated marshmallow confections. For me, the first signs of Spring are always the sightings of cellophane wrapped trays holding brightly colored chicks and bunnies begging to be stuffed into my mouth. Yes, they beg. And I am all too happy to oblige…the thought of which makes my mother retch.

When I was I small child, it was necessary for her to purchase those little packages of nasty goodness two at a time. The first package served to lure me from the store back to the car, and the second package was to appease me on the trip home. Once home, I would fall  face first into a sugar crusted crystalline coma, giving my mom a much needed break.

My Easter dresses were neon testaments to the need for napkins and wet-wipes. As much as she was disgusted by them, mom embraced Peeps because of the peace that accompanied them. If my mouth was stuffed full of crunchy marshmallow goo, then I was unable to talk. Or whine. Or complain. Yes, Peeps were a very necessary evil for her.

As I grew, I discovered some disturbing things about Peeps. The first thing being that not everyone likes them. My mom was not alone in her revulsion, and there is no middle of the Peep road. You either like them or you don’t. Love ‘em or hate ‘em.

The subject alone triggers some pretty passionate and heated discussions. My mother is staunch in her belief that they will readily survive a nuclear apocalypse. The giant mushroom cloud will be followed by sparkly phosphorescence…and if you’ve ever put a Peep in the microwave, you can guess what it will look like.

Current research on Peeps is that they are not soluble in: water, acetone, sulfuric acid or sodium hydroxide. Yet, none of this information will deter me from eating them. Peeps are tasty, Peeps are good.

It’s reasonable to say that I’m a Peep-ophile. I love them, and thanks to a wonderful support group, I have discovered new ways to enjoy them. Just a few ideas:

• Float one in a cup of hot chocolate.
• Melt one between two graham crackers with half a chocolate bar.
• Roasted over a campfire (Caution: the sugar may overheat or ignite posing an extreme burn hazard.)
• A Peep-tini. Yes, someone decided to buoy one in a Martini. (Probably not for the squeamish) Truthfully, I’ve never tried this one, and likely never will

Peep-ophiles are hard-core Peep-lovers. Their devotion knows no bounds or limitation. But just as they love the candy treat, there are others who are at the other end of the equation. The common response from the Peep-haters is “Blech.” Again, nothing middle of the road there.

In total, approximately 600 million Peeps are consumed every year, so I would hazard a guess that they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. So the best we can hope for is some kind of “PeepsAccord” Maybe the UN has some kind of PeepsKeeping Security Council? All I am saying, is give Peeps a chance…