A Short Snippet

This little snippet dates from about ten years ago. I recycled it in my book that came out in 2006. Enjoy ...

Many spiritual beliefs teach us we pick the lives we're born into, and many times I have played the scene in my head, of me a half century ago ready to disembark the godly planes as I negotiate with my cosmic broker the terms for my upcoming earthly existence. I have been singled out, he informs me. I can have all the worldly success of a George Bush Republican, he lets me know. The catch is I will BE a George Bush Republican. The other path, he tells me, leads to a deeper humanity and spirituality through a trail of a thousand sorrows.

I am clearly being honored. Precious few souls, I realize, are presented with such spectacular options. Nevertheless, I find myself trying to strike a better deal.

Can't I have the spirituality and humanity, I ask, with the Republican success, without the sorrows? And the cosmic broker only laughs. He sees my hesitation, then presents me with another choice - of a successful but modest professional life, a family, security, perhaps a light karmic obligation or two. He catches the wistful look in my eyes, of a simple dream denied by someone who has already made up his mind. He reaches over and hands me the thousand sorrows documents, which I sign without reading.

God, I hate you! I hear myself crying out many years later. But God doesn't hold this against me. God knows the deal, even if you and I can only imagine it.

***

Three more snippets ...

The Day I Fired God

God and I have issues. It all came to a head yesterday morning when I leisurely double-checked my 1 PM lunch appointment only to discover it was for 12 noon. I had to leave now, right now. Now as in NOW!

Shit!

It was all God’s fault, of course. Was it too much trouble on His part to actually equip me with a brain that worked? Or at least a non-working brain that came with technical support? Ever try getting through to God? I’ve been on hold all my life. Never mind. Just grab my wallet and I’m outta here. Wallet? Wallet!

One minute ... no wallet. Two minutes ... no wallet.

Now I was really mad at God.

Three minutes, four minutes ...

I’m late! Or rather late for being a half-hour early. I had to give myself time for getting lost, stuck in traffic, or a comet randomly landing on my head. And the way things were going with my day, there was clearly a high probability of things falling out of the sky, totally exclusive to me.

There’s a passage in Homer’s Iliad that best describes how I was feeling. This is when the Greek’s mighty warrior, Achilles, discovers that the god Apollo has played a trick on him (sort of equivalent to hiding my wallet on me). As Homer describes it: “Achilles of the nimble feet was furious.”

“You have made a fool of me!” Achilles lashes out at Apollo. To add a bit of context to the conversation, our mere mortal only minutes before had had a run-in with the river god Xanthus, who “towered up and rushed upon Achilles with an angry surge, seething with foam and blood and corpses.”

First the river god, and now Apollo. “Much as I should like to pay you out,” Achilles rages at the son of Zeus, “if I only had the power.”

Being a mere mortal totally sucks.

At least Achilles got to vent his anger on Troy’s best warrior, Hector, whom he confronted “looking like the god of War, in his flashing helmet, girt for battle,” brandishing “the formidable ashen spear of Pelion.”

Me, I had the option of punching the crap out of my throw pillow-laden love seat.

I looked up at the ceiling instead. “God, you’re fired!” I said in a voice that would have caused all the plants in the house to shrivel and die had I been a god, myself. The plants paid no attention.
Minutes later, I found my wallet, or rather God surreptitiously returned it to where I had left it in the first place. At least, where I think I may have left it. How the hell would I know where I left it, me with my factory-reject brain with no tech support.

I looked back up at the ceiling. Let this be a lesson to you, God, said the look on my face.

Nothing dropped out of the sky on me on the way to my lunch appointment. Lunch was great.

Tiger, King David, and God

Someone else is always controlling the clicker when the TV goes weird on me. Here I was, minding my own business when two women came on the screen - one claiming to be a psychologist - carrying on with haughty disapproval about Tiger Woods’ sex life.

“Listen,” I found myself shouting back at the TV, “unless you have a dick, you need to stay out of this conversation!”

In a similar fashion, I believe those with no ovaries (or a history thereof) have no business speaking out against abortion. And while we’re off the topic, if you’re against gay marriage, then don’t have one and shut the hell up.

I swear I wasn’t going to write about this, but there was something about these idiots that got me going. Okay, I’m not approving Tiger’s behavior, but let’s restore a bit of perspective to the conversation:

The Bible tells us Solomon had 700 wives and 300 concubines. His more monkish father David, by contrast, made do with a mere eight wives that we know of and 10 concubines. God apparently had no problem with quantity, as we hear through the prophet Nathan: “ ... and if that had been too little, I would moreover have given unto thee such and such things."

We don’t need several branches of science to know what men are built for, but we have them anyway, and the ancient Hebrews had a practical insight into this. But there were limits, and a large part of what makes the Bible so fascinating is the constant tug of war between the way we are made and the way we need to behave. To return to David:

God apparently thought it was okay that David exercise his alpha male prerogatives. What upset the Lord was that David, not content with what he had, had to go pluck a forbidden fruit, Bathsheba (temptation deluxe, pictured here), wife of Uriah the Hittite. After that, David’s life was never the same.

“I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house,” said God through Nathan.

Back to Tiger. Being the best golfer in the world sounds decidedly un-Biblical, but today’s highly successful athlete (or media star or politician or business person) would have been yesterday’s warrior. And as we know from the Bible, success in battle was catnip to the opposite sex:

“When David was returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, that the women came out of all cities of Israel, singing and dancing ...”

I have no insight into this. Had I lived in ancient Israel, I’m sure I would have settled into a routine of predictable domesticity. Which translates into no singing and dancing women every time I went into town to pick up a loaf of bread. Lord knows, in my modern existence I am not exactly fending off tall blonde women trying to hop into my 1992 Tercel.

“I can resist anything but temptation,” said Oscar Wilde. The fact that temptation rarely presents itself to me does not make me a moral person. Once in a blue moon during my marriages and relationships I have had occasion to choose smart over stupid. But the difference between my world and Tiger’s is the difference between politely turning away a Jehovah’s Witness at the door and fending off wave after wave of Kamikaze pilots. I’m trying to imagine all those tall blondes hanging out by my Tercel. Sorry, God. No chance in hell.

Tiger is currently in a Mississippi clinic, reportedly being treated for sex addiction. My guess is therapy would be helpful for Tiger, but for sex addiction? On which side of the equation does abnormal truly belong?

As the Bible says: “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

Guest Blog - The God Negotiations: Acts II and III

Yesterday, Act I to Elizabeth's masterpiece. Today, the concluding acts.

Act II

God was right! He always is, you know. If you cover your body in garbage bags, very easily obtainable in these amazing free shopping places called dumpsters, you stay nice and warm throughout a Cleveland winter and the weird people don’t bother you. It’s as if they aren’t even there!

Down on the streets of Cleveland, I was getting very chummy with this nice guy named Joe, and we were sharing this delicious elixir called Wild Irish Rose. Spring was springing, the rats dancing most gracefully, and all I had to do was look up at the sky and see the most serene beauty, a different picture every day, indeed every minute sometimes. Joe had just made me the most glorious crown out of aluminum foil that really worked in keeping the extra-terrestial bureau of investigation from extracting my most precious thoughts, and which Joe said was most becoming on me, when God turned me into water vapor. The last thing I heard was Joe moaning, why does this always happen whenever I meet a nice chick?

Then I was going up, up, up into the clouds, and the next thing I knew I was in God’s office. Some weird music was blaring, the lyrics going something like War, huh, good God y’all. What is it good for? . . . The office was an absolute disaster. God was sitting at his desk playing solitaire on his computer, still in his bathrobe. Well, he always wears a bathrobe, even to work. Who’s going to stop him? He’s God!

I had to shout The Serenity Prayer in His ear three times before He recognized my presence. Just hold on, He said. I might win this one. But He didn’t, sighed, and turned to me. Sorry, forgot all about your appointment, He said, looking more than a bit dour. Like the last thing he wanted was the presence of another soul.

You called me, I said, quite annoyed by being pulled away by all the fun I’d been having in Cleveland but trying to keep my cool. Didn’t want to be smooted. Or smited. Whatever.

Right, forgot, He muttered. Where’s that file?

He finally found it under a pile of Weekly World Newspapers. Have you considered that life I was telling you about?

I was thinking maybe You have something better in there. Maybe a Guess model. Any of those in your file?

Oh, no, you don’t want to be a Guess model, he said. That’s a terrible fate.

Well, I didn’t know what to say. They seem so happy in their photos, but I didn’t pursue it. Instead, I just asked, What else do you have in there?

He shuffled some papers around and pulled out a form. I have a very promising life as a worm, He said. There. That sounds good.

A worm? Are you kidding me? Who wants to be a worm?

Well, they are quite evolved. If you happen to get cut in two, you live on as two worms, which could help you to unkink some philosophical quandaries. Plus, it would be a chance for you to actually do some good for the planet earth. Darwin was very interested. . .

No, no, no. They’re too icky. Make me something a little less icky, please. I’d like to be human.

He muttered under his breath for a while, saying things like, oh, sure, they all want to be human, and so few of them who think they are really are. Really, I should have let Satan take over. This job is just too much pressure sometimes.

Why, oh why, is God always saying things like that? He’s omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient and all the rest, yet His office is a disaster and you can’t get Him on the phone for months on end.

O.K., He says. If you insist on a human form, I’ve got three choices for you: a Catholic bishop with a taste for choirboys, a diamond miner in Africa, and that one I was telling you about.

A diamond miner in Africa! That sounds absolutely idyllic! Zebras and giraffes and amazing flowers, and all I have to do is find a few diamonds?

You think? You think worms are icky? The ants in Africa are huge! Plus it says you get your hands chopped off at the age of 15 and spend the rest of your life looking around for someone to feed you. I don’t think you’re ready for it, though, he says. Too spiritual. He crumples that form in his hand and throws it at the wastebasket, missing.

Oh. I sit there for awhile, mulling it over my remaining two choices. I twist a lock of my hair around my finger and try to look cute. He just scowls at me. Don’t even try it, he growls.

I was thinking, I do like hats. Bishops get to wear these fabulous hats and beautifully embroidered vestments and tell people what to think in glorious cathedrals with amazing stained-glass windows. And I do like choirboys myself, just not that way. That’s the only trouble. Hmmm. Meanwhile God played more solitaire on his computer. Finally he turned to me and said, I’ve been playing this game all afternoon, and I just can’t seem to win. Look, take the first option. Just take it and get out of here. You’re wasting my time.

Is that a command? What about free will?

You have three minutes, He said, turning the sands of time from His Yatzee game.

I pondered and pondered and swiveled myself around and around in the desk chair God had so benificiently provided for me. Fun! Finally I said O.K. So what’s so great about this life You’re trying to sell me on? Anything else on that form You can tell me? Any perks?

He looked at the form. You get to be a woman and have a child. That’s really cool. And you meet some wonderful people who will help you along. Oh, and every once in a while you laugh so hard that water spurts out your nose, and there’s a 7-11 down the street from you that sells excellent Indian convenience food for cheap. But back to the main problem you’ll have. Let me tell you, the cures for your disorders are there—you just have to persist. You find them and then that’s the end of it. Sort of like an Easter egg hunt. What the heck else could you want?

I know, I really do know, that God loves me infinitely, so I figured I’d take His advice.

O.K. I said. I’ll take it.

Act III

There is no Act III. Or rather, I’m living it.

Guest Blog - The God Negotiations: Act I

This masterpiece from Elizabeth:

John McManamy wrote in his book that he has a feeling that he chose his fate before he was knit in the womb, so to speak. That he has a feeling that he was offered options and actually chose to be bipolar in a pre-womb, metaphysical state. This is an idea I’ve had about myself for many years. I told John that we with mental illness should create our own religion. I guess, though, he’s too busy providing people knowledge that could save their lives. Go figure.

So I’ve been thinking about this choosing-your-life idea for some time, and came up with my latest version of me picking my own bipolar life. Let it rip. Here’s the opening scenario:

Act I

Situation: It seems necessary that I have to be born into another planet-earth life once again, and God and I are discussing options. He takes out a file from his rather disorganized cabinet.

He pulls out a form from the file. He says, here’s one you might want to consider. It requires you to have many disorders that are pronounced incurable. Let’s see. Sexual abuse in your teens. Something termed chronic fatigue in your twenties. Then it says fibromyalgia in your thirties. Then a diagnosis of bipolar as you reach 40. Hmmm. Says it should have been diagnosed earlier on that one. Darn, I need a better editor. Need to get rid of that word “should.”

Doesn’t sound so bad, I say. That looks like a breeze. Remember that past life when I lived in a small agrarian New England town that ran a lottery that required us to stone to death one innocent person a year to make the crops grow better? Didn’t work. And those people I had to live with were so boring! Plus all those kids I gave birth to and loved who died in their infancy. Seven dead out of nine!

Look, He says, don’t get snarky. Just be quiet and let me continue. You people who think they can remember past lives are getting on my nerves. You all say you were Cleopatra or Atilla the Hun or some such. Wrong! As for you, you were not in a short story. Believe me, I’ve wiped your memory clean in an ECT contraption. You are getting too imaginative again, so watch it. Here, do this crossword puzzle till you calm down.

Then He leaves me in a cubicle for eight hours with nothing but this crossword puzzle, a pen that doesn’t work, a computer with many, many viruses, a razor blade, a raven feather, and a woman in the next cubicle who keeps blathering about the bras she’s about to order from Victoria’s Secret. I tell you, it seemed like an eternity.

When He comes back, He looks at the blank puzzle and says, what have you been doing all this time?

The pen you gave me was out of ink, I simper. And what’s a six letter word for stupid? Plus, You’re the Expert, so I must ask you. Should I show more or less cleavage?

He ignores this most urgent question, and dismisses my excuses for not completing His assignment. Don’t you know by now that blood is an excellent ink?, He asks. Are you totally out of it?

So let’s get on with it, He says, pulling at his snowy white beard and trying to be kinder. Try to focus. Keep on-point. He says to me. O.K. More on this potential life. Here’s the objective of the life I’m proposing for you. You spend most of your life trying to heal yourself. On this form it says that lots of people termed “assholes” get in your way. Gosh, I really need better editors. Told them many times not to use that word. They just don’t listen.

I say, O.K. God, or gosh if you’d rather be called that, what do you have in mind? All I have to do is cure myself of a few ailments and then I get a mansion in heaven? I hear there are many mansions, some with pool tables in the basement. Any still available? Do they include mineral baths and servants way wiser than I am but whom I can keep in near-poverty and at my service, attendant to my every emotional tizzy, like in the classic Hollywood movies?

He answers, the real estate market here in Heaven is a bit farked up at the present moment. However, I do have an opening for a basement efficiency in a district of Indian computer service providers.

O.K., I say, getting excited. That sounds fine, as long as I get fed decently.

Well, He says, pulling at his long snowy beard and showing deep wrinkles around his eyes—He should really see a plastic surgeon about that—let me review the form. Says here that you can get a junior bacon cheesburger, plus a small fry and a small drink consisting of caffeine, refined sugar, and many artificial ingredients for under $5. Is there anything else that can complete your order?

O.K., I say. Do you mind if I sleep on this decision? I’m feeling a bit woozy.

No problem, He replies. Being that it’s January in Cleveland and a bit chilly, just go downtown. There are some really nice grates on the sidewalks that blow hot air up from hell that you can sleep on. Pretty cozy. Lots of people who talk to me sleep there.

More to come ...