Black Sheep
12/8/7
Okay,
I realize that some of my Heartsong Good Newsletters have been a bit harsh and
heavy-handed lately—like a Baptist preacher clobbering you with a hell, fire
and damnation sermon. I apologize if
I’ve offended any of you as I’d like to represent God as a kind father or
loving friend—with a keen sense of humor.
I truly believe God laughs at us each time we take ourselves too
seriously. Even in our childish attempts
to blow ourselves up, God steps in to make sure we don’t actually do it. (Gregg Braden shared that the U.S. has pushed
the nuclear war button twice already, but it somehow didn’t engage. I truly believe in Divine Intervention or we’d all be dead by now!) And so, with all due respect to parents,
elders, women and God, I wish to share the lighter side of life.
I
must admit I’ve had to make some adjustments in my life living down here in
Yuma with Mom. For instance, every
weekday morning Mom gets up at 5:00 to attend her Water Aerobics class at
6:00. I’m not sure why it takes her so
long to get ready as I can throw on my swim suit and walk to the swimming pool
in 5 minutes flat, but that’s another curiosity about older people I don’t
quite understand. They’re always ready a
half-hour early and show up at least 10 minutes early to every event they
attend. None of this “fashionably late”
scene I’m used to.
I’ve
joined her for Water Aerobics thinking I’m going to get some great
exercise. Wrong. First off, they start
out vocalizing vowels—A,E,I,O,U,Y. Then
neck rolls, finger exercises (the piano) and “killer arms” (a minute or so of
arm lifts). Mom leaves after 45 minutes,
but I stay for the second class where we do some exciting exercises to old
tunes like “Over in the Meadow,” “How Much is that Doggie in the Window?”
“Cinderella Dressed in Yellow” “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “Hickory Dickory
Dock.” Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s great fun trying to remember those old
nursery rhymes and joining in the fun singing to the aerobic “Rocking Chair”
“The Doggie” “Jump Rope” “Swim Strokes” and “The Clock.” Part of the whole process is feeling like a
kid again isn’t it? As far as getting my
exercise—I’ve had to rev it up a bit and take my own exercise exertion to
another level—or I’d probably fall asleep and drown.
I was
looking forward to the weekend and sleeping in.
Not! My mother gets up at her usual 5:00, turns on
the bedroom light, gets dressed, makes her bed then goes into the other room,
switches on the light and turns on the TV full blast (she’s hard of hearing)
leaving the bedroom door wide open!
MOM!! I scream to myself knowing
full well she’d never hear me if I screamed out loud. Well, what can I say? She’s in bed by 6:00 every evening while I
watch my CSI marathons on cable TV each night until 10:00. That and she takes two naps during the day
while I’m busy reading or writing on my computer. She doesn’t need the extra sleep on Saturday
morning, but I certainly do. So I get
up, switch off the light, shut the door and pull a pillow over my head to get a
few more hours of shut-eye.
Sunday,
she asks if I will take her to church at 8:00.
“Gladly,” I say, looking forward to a few extra hours of sleep. But again she wakes me up at 5:00 with the
same routine as yesterday. After an hour
of restlessness, I acquiesce to her strange behavior by grabbing my swim suit
and towel and going to the Jacuzzi to relax and watch the sunrise. Showers are better over at the dressing rooms
anyway. By 7:00, when I arrive back
home, she’s already dressed, gotten breakfast, and is ready to leave for
church.
“Mom,
I thought church didn’t start until 8:00!” I shout as I blow dry my hair. “Well, it takes at least a half an hour to
get there and the choir starts singing at quarter till,” she responds.
I
couldn’t imagine anything in Yuma being more than 10 minutes away, yet I still
hurry to get ready. I hear my mother
complaining about how I’d brought the wrong black skirt for her (she didn’t
mention she had more than one and didn’t specify which) so I offer my long,
stretchy black skirt for her to wear.
She smiles as she puts it on as it looks and feels much better. I then pull on my old black stretch pants, a
purple paisley mini-skirt (I’d scored at a garage sale), my lavender “Layers”
top (Ariel had given me for my Birthday), and a black midriff sweater (I
salvaged from Deserae’s give-a-ways).
When I get out of the bathroom, hair and make-up in place, I’m thinking
I looked quite chic. My mother looks at
me in despair and replies, “You’re not going to wear that to church, I hope.” She
offers my black skirt back as I take a deep breath and reply, “Mom, I’m 50
years old now. I do know how to dress
myself and besides—it’s taken me this
long to develop my own style of
dressing. I’m sorry you disapprove but
you’re just going to have to live with it.”
I see by the blank look on her face that she hasn’t heard a word I’d
said. Selective hearing, I call it, but
I knew I’d said it for my own benefit—not hers.
It’s 7:30 and time to go, so the debate is over—Thank God!
When
we arrive at the Mormon Church 10 minutes away, the parking lot is already full
with Snowbirders filing into the chapel.
I drop Mom off in front while I locate a parking spot in back. We find a seat in the fifth row by the
wall. I’m hoping for a place in the back
so I can catch up on a few zzzzs. I
survive the opening exercises (much like Water Aerobics—pacifying and
disarming) but when the two guest speakers get up to talk about “Temple Work,”
it’s like swallowing a gentle narcotic and I find myself dozing off. Fortunately, I wake up before I get to the
embarrassing snoring stage. I excuse
myself at the break between Sacrament Meeting and Sunday School, and tell Mom
I’ll be back to pick her up at 10:30 or so—after Relief Society. I then escape into the fresh air and head to
the local Swap Meet to pick up some Emu Oil and Brad’s special Hibiscus tea. I also score a bunch of fresh asparagus for
Mom for $1.
At
10:30 I’m back for the last part of Relief Society. I assess that I can probably make it through
a half hour of “women talk,” so I find a comfy seat on the back bench. The elderly woman speaker starts in about how
the Mormon Church is getting quite a bit of publicity with Mitt Romney running
for president. She’s concerned, however,
how the public views Mormons. She says
they’ve been best described in two words—“Obedient” and “Sheep.” Sheep!!
I exclaim to myself. I couldn’t
believe she actually mentioned the same exact word I used to describe my own
Mormon experience in my comedy script entitled “Black Sheep.”
When
I get home, Mom opts for her morning nap while I get lunch ready. While I wait for the chicken and potatoes to
cook, I turn on the TV to witness Mitt Romney being “debriefed” by a CNN News
interviewer concerning his Religion versus Politics “conflict of
interests.” With a “sheepish” grin on
his face—somewhat like a deer caught in the glare of your headlights—Mitt did a
great job of avoiding the “Mormon” issue.
Now granted, Mitt has done some remarkable things in Massachusetts for
healthcare and tax reform, and we don’t have to worry about him getting caught
with his pants down holding a cigar. But
can I really support a candidate who believes that “when the Prophet speaks,
the thinking has been done,” or still believes that women don’t have the same
unalienable rights as men? Or needs to
apologize for misrepresenting authentic Native American history and discounting
the spiritual revelations of their female prophet—The White Buffalo Calf
Woman? I soon tired of the political
rhetoric and got out my Black Sheep script I’d written several years ago. I found it quite amusing (if you don’t mind
the “tongue-in-cheek Mormon humor”) and so I’ll share it with you. I apologize in advance if I offend any
Mormons out there.
Black Sheep
Ya
know black sheep have really gotten a bum rap.
I mean, what does it really mean when someone says, "Oh, she's just
the black sheep of the family?" Is
that supposed to be derogatory or something?
Like a polite way of saying, "Oh, she's really out there!" or "She's really gone off the deep end!"
Well, I've always been known as the black sheep of my family. And ya know what? I'm damn proud of it!
It
reminds me of one of my favorite cartoons.
I enlarged it and stuck it on my fridge for months. It was a picture of a flock of sheep—en
mass—going over a high cliff. Picture
it. A huge flock of white sheep
following some damn leader headed towards the edge of a cliff and falling off
into the great abyss of doom and gloom.
Stupid aren't they? But on closer inspection, you see this little ol'
black sheep movin' in the opposite direction with the caption over his head
readin' "Excuse me, excuse me."
Now
at first glance you would think this little ol' black sheep was just being
polite as he moved past the others going in the opposite direction.
"Excuse me, excuse me, so sorry, didn't mean to nudge you. Just let me get by, please," kinda
thing. But I don't think that's really what he's saying here. What he's really saying is—“Excuse me, you idiots! But up ahead
there's a big, damn cliff and if you don't turn around you're going to fall off
and break your sweet little necks!"
Or, "Excuse me, this little ol' black
sheep may look a little weird to you white
sheep…but I sure ain't stupid!" Or, in other words, "Hey you whities, excuse me, but you better get your sweet
little white asses turned around and follow this here black ass or you're all
gonna be dead! Dead as lamb chops!"
Well,
I think you know what I mean when I say it's always been the black sheep who've
been the enlightened ones. I mean
they've always been the smart ones asking the really tough questions. Like, "I have to do what to get to Heaven? Says who?! Or "What keys of authority did you say
you had? Are those keys going to drive me to Heaven? Or do I need
to get my own keys? Who needs keys anyway? I think I'll just hot-wire this old jalopy
and get there myself!"
Or
here's a classic question to ask your bishop next time you go in for an
interview. "Say bishop, wasn't it
the enlightened prophets of the Old Testament who had lots of lovers, drank
lots of wine, celebrated by dancing naked in the streets, and sang praises to
God for all things? Now that's my kinda prophet! I don't
want no prophet that says I gotta wear this itchy woolen underwear that covers
my entire body from my neck to my wrists and to my ankles. And I have to wear it even in the summertime
and when I have sex! Can you imagine it?
I certainly can't!
And,
by the way, you can only have sex to procreate.
Now can you imagine one of King David's 365 wives waiting a whole year
for her turn to…procreate…and realizing, "Damn, I'm on the rag!"
What is
this thing about polygamy anyway? Is
that male ego out of control or what?! I
mean what rational person, male or female, in their right mind could possibly
think that one man can satisfy the needs of more than one woman? Get
real! I mean, if you're going to do
polygamy you might as well make it fair.
Ya know, “what's good for the goose is good for the gander.” None of this, "Oh, the scriptures say
that a man has to have more that one wife to make it into the Celestial
Kingdom." What bullshit! Course, on second thought—maybe it does take
four or five women bitchin’ at a man for the same thing just to get him to
listen!
But
seriously, what man on the planet would put up with this scenario. Imagine your wife coming up to you two nights
in a row and saying, "Sorry sweetheart, tonight's your night to sleep in
the other room by yourself again. Close the door real tight sweetie so you
don't have to listen to me in the next room screwin' Tom. Or was it Dick tonight…or maybe it was
Harry. Let's see, I can't remember…was
it Tom then Dick, then Harry. Or was it
Tom, Harry, Dick?! (Sorry, I couldn’t
help myself.)
Or
then there's Joe Smith going to God with his problem. "Hey, God, I got this problem, God. You see I'm in love with these two
babes. One's name Edith and one's named
Kate. I just can't decide between the
two of them God. What should I do?"
And
God replies, "Silly Joseph, you can have
your Kate and Edith too!
But
then his wife, Emma, goes to God with her problem. "Hey, God, I'm gettin’ kinda tired
listenin’ to Joseph in the other room having his Kate and Edith too. So when is it my turn, God, when is it my
turn?"
Could
you imagine God turning to Emma and saying, "Be patient Emma, you'll get
your turn soon. But sorry, all you get
is Joe Pie!"
Or
then there's Brigham Young going to God with his problem. "Hey God, I got this real problem, God. I've fallen in love with my best friend's
14-year-old daughter. Is it okay to
screw her, God? I mean you screwed Mary
when she was only 14, didn't you, God?
It must be okay, then.
And
God replies, "Breed um young, Brigham, breed um young"
But
then Brigham's over-the-hill wife, Melba, takes her problem to God. "Hey God, Brigham's got all these young
babes lined up for a month. So when is
it my turn, God, when is it my turn?"
And
God replies, "Sorry, Melba, so sorry.
You can only breed um with Brigham.
And Melba darling…we like to…breed um young.
Well,
if that's someone's idea of God and Heaven…I'll take Hell, thank-you! Maybe it's just the black sheep in me that
has a hard time with organized religious bullshit. That's probably why they kicked me out of the
church without even notifying me. But
you know what I got when they kicked me out of church? I got a 10% raise in pay, Sundays off…and
best of all…I now get to pick out my own underwear!
Course, now that I'm an outcast, I think I'm going to start
my own church—the Church of the Black Sheep.
Wanna join? The Black Sheep are
those that question authority, don't swallow all the bullshit that's crammed
down their throats, and basically believe only what's real. Maybe I'll call it the
“Church of the Gathering of What Is Real.”
Speaking of what is
real. The other day I was talking to a
farmer who raises sheep. He told me that
the black sheep of the flock are the most valuable. They use the black sheep to count the other
sheep in the flock. For every hundred
white sheep, they stick in one black sheep.
That way they only have to count the black sheep to determine how many
sheep are in the flock. In other
words…the black sheep are the only ones that count!
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