This calls for a scrapoff!

So, when I wrote yesterday's post, I had a hunch that most obsessive scrapbookers were crazy. Thank you for confirming my suspicions.

Seriously--I've gotten more angry e-mail over this than I did over the sex posts and the Prop 8 post. They're just freaking scrapbooks, people!

Also, thank you reader Seana for sending me this digital scrapbook page. I don't know if it's an insult or a joke. I laughed, so I guess it doesn't matter what your intention was.


So anyway, I was thinking that maybe this should be a contest. Make a scrapbook page about me or any of your favorite stories from the blog (you can use any pictures of me you find here), e-mail it to me, and I'll send a hand selected Christmas ornament to the person whose page I like best. If you don't do digital scrapbooking, you can make a regular page and scan it in, or take a photograph of it.

Oh, and it doesn't have to be complimentary or nice in any way. You can feel free to use this page to tell me how you really feel.

O.K., so, I need to receive all entries by midnight Pacific time on Friday, December 10th. The winner will be announced on Monday the 13th.

Also, by sending in an entry, you are agreeing to let me post your creation in a blog entry. If you don't want your name used, let me know.

No thank you, I don't want to see your scrapbook.

So, I don't scrapbook. I have no desire to scrapbook*. I think it's a lot of time and even more money spent on something that will rarely get looked at and could be destroyed by something as simple as a spilled glass of juice.

And I'm just going to be honest here--no one but you gives a crap about 90% of the things you scrapbook. Sorry. Showing someone your scrapbooks is the modern day equivalent of forcing people to sit through your vacation slide show.

Also? When you scrapbook everything, it makes the important things seem, well...less important. Like highlighting every word in a book.

I can't remember every birthday or every Halloween or even every Christmas of my life. But I do remember the important ones.

I remember the ones worth remembering.

As I was decorating my Christmas tree this year, I realized that my ornaments are kind of like my version of a scrapbook (which is much cooler than your actual scrapbook).

I knew exactly where every ornament came from. Every single ornament on my tree has a memory attached. They've come from places we've vacationed, places we've lived. I have a "Baby's First Christmas" for all of my kids. I have my own Baby's First Christmas ornament. I have exquisite and expensive Venetian glass ornaments, and I have pipe cleaners with eyes glued to them. I have ornaments given to me by friends over the years, going back to seventh grade.

So I guess my point is, memories are wonderful, but you don't need to spend hours and enormous sums of money on supplies to create elaborate books to remember. And not every single event in life is special. Sometimes Halloween is just Halloween and it doesn't really need to be documented**. Your children will not be scarred if you don't.

I know I'm glad that I got a small box of meaningful Christmas ornaments from my mother and not a pile of scrapbooks. I think if my mother had made scrapbooks for me like many of you out there make for your kids, I would have been all, "Dammit mom. With the money you spent on these supplies we could have taken a Caribbean cruise. Twice."

O.K., so maybe I don't have a point. Maybe I just wanted to rag on scrapbookers. Either way, I feel better now. And I've probably alienated at least half of my readership.

You should go make a scrapbook layout about how I offended you.


*The exception is digital scrapbooking. That's pretty cool, and more financially responsible, and if you back it up, won't be destroyed by a wayward glass of OJ.

**I'm not talking about taking pictures. It's always nice to go back and look at long forgotten pictures. But they don't need to be in a scrapbook. Ever.

Apparently Jesus prefers stilettos.

It's that time of year, internets. Christmas music time. I love Christmas music. I love turning on the radio and hearing it, I love singing it, I love coming to my blog and hearing it. I really had to restrain myself from putting up the Christmas playlist in July a month ago.

There is one Christmas song, however, that you will never see on my playlist. (Well, two actually. I'd like to put Lonely Jew from South Park on there, but it's so riddled with F-bombs toward the end that even I couldn't in good conscience put it on the Christmas playlist. But you can totally click HERE to hear it.)

Anyway.

The one song you will never see on my playlist is that stupid Christmas Shoes song. There is nothing right about that song. Nothing.

Here, read they lyrics:

It was almost Christmas time, there I stood in another line
Tryin' to buy that last gift or two, not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing 'round like little boys do And in his hands he held a pair of shoes
His clothes were worn and old, he was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay I couldn't believe what I heard him say

Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight

He counted pennies for what seemed like years
Then the cashier said, "Son, there's not enough here"
He searched his pockets frantically
Then he turned and he looked at me

He said Mama made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir, what am I going to do, somehow I've got to buy her these Christmas shoes

So I laid the money down, I just had to help him out
I'll never forget the look on his face when he said Mama's gonna look so great

Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight

I knew I'd caught a glimpse of heaven's love as he thanked me and ran out
I knew that God had sent that little boy to remind me just what Christmas is all about.
***

First of all, why is a kid who is too young to understand the concept of money and price tags alone in Wal-Mart (admit it--it's impossible to picture this taking place anywhere but a Wal-Mart)?

Second of all, What's up with the dad not bathing his kid? I mean, the wife is on her deathbed. The least he could do is make sure the kid is clean. You know what would make mama smile more than shoes? Knowing that her kid is going to be cared for when she's dead.

Thirdly, I feel really bad for the mother. Year after year she's gone without while her kids got great gifts and her husband, who can't even take the trash to the curb on garbage day, got all the electronic gadgets he wanted (not that I'm projecting or anything). And now she's dying and all she's going to get is a pair of whore shoes from Wal-Mart to wear when she meets Jesus.

Straight from the Christmas 2010 Wal-Mart collection.

Have you seen the kind of shoes Wal-Mart sells this time of year? And if you've ever spent more than five minutes with a child, you know that the tackier something is, the more likely they are to choose it. These are the shoes he bought for mama. I guarantee it.

Who the hell wrote this song?

The top 10 things we're all thankful for, but won't admit.

Happy Thanksgiving, internets! I hope your day was full of unhealthy food and dysfunctional people!

I've been seeing a lot of people posting blogs and Facebook updates about what they're thankful for. Yeah, that's not so much me. I think we're all pretty grateful for family, friends, health, blah blah blah. I mean, how often do we hear of people updating their status with, "Damn, I hate being in good health and gainfully employed. I wish I could get laid off, and then maybe get cancer!"? Exactly, never.

So, I've decided to share with you the top 10 things I'm really thankful for. You're probably thankful for most of them, too, but won't admit it.


10. I'm thankful when hotel housekeeping leaves a tip envelope with the housekeeper's name on it. It makes it much easier for me to leave her a nasty note about why it is she's not getting a tip from me.

9. I'm thankful that I'm not a hoarder.

8. I'm thankful that I was smart enough not to get a pet that requires me to follow behind it picking up their steaming feces with a baggie.

7. I'm thankful I never had to sleep with a teacher for an A.

6. I'm thankful I'm not blind, because I'm pretty sure being blind would be the very worst thing ever for a germophobe. You'd never be able to see if that fork in the restaurant had food stuck to it, or if you were walking into a puddle of urine in a public restroom.

5. I'm thankful for every time Brad Pitt takes his shirt off in a movie. Except for during the first half of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. That was not hot.

4. I'm thankful so many Mormons are addicted to porn and I'm not. If someone tries to point out my spiritual shortcomings, I can always say, "Hey, at least I'm not addicted to porn like the rest of you!"

3. I'm thankful I lived in Europe and can refer to "that time we were in Paris, " or "the Thanksgiving we flew down to Italy for the afternoon."

2. I'm thankful that I'm thinner than Oprah.

1. I'm thankful for the internet. Without it, I'd have no friends.

Like Swatches, for the middle aged suburbanite.

Remember Swatches? They were really popular in the late eighties, and kind of pricey (for a rubber watch), and the more popular you were, the more you owned--and wore all at once.

I only had one, which should come as a surprise to no one.

Last night I realized what the grown up, nearing middle age, living in the suburbs, raising a family equivalent has become.

These suckers:


As I walked around my neighborhood last night, it occurred to me that approximately 99.99% of the houses in my neighborhood had them. Many, many of them. One of the houses near me has 47 of them in their front yard. FORTY-SEVEN! This is not a sprawling estate. This is a 2300 square foot home on three quarters of an acre, just like all the houses in the neighborhood.

(Not my neighbors. This looks tame and classy compared to the 47 solar light house)

Having 47 of these in your yard looks just about as ridiculous as wearing five Swatches up your arm. But the difference is, no one thinks you're cooler for having more solar lights in your yard than necessary. Also? Colored ones and flashing ones do not elevate your social status in any way, shape or form.


Six. Six is the limit. If you have more than six, I suggest you seek intervention immediately.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I have four. And they came with the house. And only one actually works. So, it's like Swatches all over again.)

Random Bits

1. Your kid's primary teacher knows all your family secrets.



2. This was on my SoBe Lifewater, and it made me laugh all evening.



3. I will never understand boys.

Yes, that would be super heroes, clone troopers, knights, Indians and dinosaurs
(oh, and Woody riding a shark) versus army men.

4. I will never understand girls.

This shark gets around. It's the same one Woody was riding earlier.


5. Green bean casserole is the best food ever created, but only if it's made completely from canned products.

Part Two

O.K., so if you didn't read yesterday's guest post from Oliver*, go read it now.

Here's part two.

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Part the Second: A Queer, a Lesbian and their Bishop Walk into a Temple



To say I was shocked to learn that Patty is a lesbian is an understatement. Of all people, I should have been able to pick up on this. I mean, she didn't even drive a Subaru or listen to The Indigo Girls.

And then I told her that I, too, was gay.

It's hard to put what that moment felt like into words. There was joy. There were tears. There was a great feeling of relief on both our parts that we didn't have to try to find each other sexually attractive.

And then we started the process of figuring out what to do next.

We knew a few things for sure: We loved each other deeply. We wanted to live our lives together rather than apart. We wanted to follow what we believe to be God's church. We wanted to be parents and have an eternal family.

So we decided that we should get married.

I know, some of you just got really upset. I even know what you're thinking. "They won't be able to find true happiness because they're hiding their authentic selves." Or, "They should be free to find the same kind of love that heterosexuals have--love that includes sex." And I'm sure there were even a few of you who are wholly disgusted by the idea of two homosexuals doing anything like being happy, and I don't really want to entertain what your thoughts might have been. Those people should stop reading right now and go watch Bristol Palin dance, because you're not going to like the rest of this story.

Is it possible that I would be happier in a relationship with a man? Maybe. I don't know. But I'm happy now, so why does it matter?

Sex is not the be all and end all of life. Do you know how many sexless heterosexual marriages there are out there? A fricking lot.

Yes, Patty and I made the conscious decision to live a life that doesn't include sex. I know that's really hard for most people to understand, I really do. The thing is, while I'm sexually attracted to men, I've never been emotionally attracted to them. I've never desired to be in a relationship with them. And as attractive as I find men to be, I find the idea of buttsex completely ooky. It's your pooper, people. I won't share a drink with another person because there might be saliva in it. So, poopers are off the negotiating table. And don't get me started on oral sex. Yeah, that's not going in my mouth. I'm a urologist. I know where that's been.

(And right about now some of you are asking yourselves, "Well what about Patty?" Patty's story is Patty's to tell if she wants to. But I can tell you that this decision was a greater sacrifice for her.)

O.K., so back to the story.

Patty and I wanted to do this the right way. We didn't want to lie to our church. We didn't want to do something that was wrong. So, we talked to our Bishop. (For all you No-Mos, a Bishop is the clergyman for a congregation. Like a pastor.)

You want to see comedy gold? Tell your Mormon bishop that you're gay, and your fiance is a lesbian, and you want to marry each other in the temple and live a chaste life.

Of course he didn't know how to handle that. Higher ups were called in. Things were discussed. Letters were written. And in the end, they couldn't find a doctrinal reason that what we wanted was wrong. Permission was granted. To be honest, I'm shocked that Boyd K. Packer didn't drop dead from a heart attack on the spot.

{Tangent: I know some of you reading this will not be able to comprehend how two homosexuals could also so devoutly believe in the Mormon church. We just do. Sorry. That said, we do not support prop 8. Gays should be allowed to marry secularly, or in religions that do not see homosexual behavior as a sin. Also, I know the man is an apostle, but Boyd K. Packer is a jackwagon that makes me (and hermaphrodite kittens, apparently) cry. I'm glad the powers that be changed his talk, but sad that he said what he did (in conference, and in numerous talks previously) in the first place. On a somewhat related note, if I did ever leave the Mormon church, I would call myself a Homo FoMo, short for Homosexual Former Mormon. Feel free to use it. Also, my apologies to all the non mormons reading this who are all, "Who the hell is Boyd K. Packer and what is he doing with hermaphrodite kittens?" End tangent.}

So, we got married in the Washington D.C. temple. And a couple of years later we adopted our first child. A year after that, our second.

And we are happy.

We don't openly share that we are homosexuals, but neither do we actively hide it. We're realistic. We know it would be hard on our children. They both have special needs, and they don't need something else people can be cruel to them over. They will know when they are older. And they will know what love is, and though it takes many forms, it is ultimately a reflection of what God feels for us. No matter who makes our netherbelows tingle.


*Names have been changed to protect our identities. I chose Oliver because I had a childhood crush on the misfit cousin Oliver who made The Brady Bunch jump the shark. Patty chose Patty because the TV character she identified most with as a child was Peppermint Patty on The Peanuts.

Also, I want to give Brandi a big, wet, sloppy gay kiss for helping me turn my thoughts into something mildly entertaining. She can be my fag hag any day.

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